UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 
AT    LOS  ANGELES 


THE  GIFT  OF 

MAY  TREAT  MORRISON 

IN  MEMORY  OF 

ALEXANDER  F  MORRISON 


7-  3  V  ^'  ^ 


TrT 


'Yè 


^1    ;^,..*}    ■ 


;  ^^f^*. 


THE 


ABBE     DANIEL 


FROM   THE   FRENCH 


ANDRE    THEURIET 


BY 

HELEN     r>.    DOLE 


^ 


NEW  YORK:  46   East    14T11    Stkeei- 

THOALAS    V.    CROWELL    &    COMPANY 

BOSTON':    khi    in  kciiask    Street 


Copyright, 

1894, 

Bv  T.   Y.   CROWELL  &   CO. 


'        '''     '.*     Vc    «'c    c 


INTRODUCnON. 

•*The  Abbé  Daniel"  is  one  of  those  liter- 
ary gems  which  the  French  excel  in  produc- 
ing. Simple  in  plot,  chaste  in  style,  dainty  in 
humor,  its  beauty  consists  chiefly  in  its  artis- 
tic counterpoise  of  the  characters  :  the  abbé 
himself,  with  his  affectionate,  unselfish  nature, 
unworldly,  sweet-tempered,  easily  crushed; 
his  namesake  growing  up  from  an  impetuous 
youtli  into  a  gallant  soldier,  hearty,  frank, 
likeable  ;  the  rtowerlike  Denise  fading  away 
and  leaving  a  still  brighter  flower  as  a  con- 
solation for  her  husband  and  the  abbj  who 
had  loved  her;  Beauvais,  the  rough,  hearty 
proprietor,  so  genial  under  the  outside  bark, 
so  wise  and  generous  !  These  are  the  four 
chief  actors,  and  how  perfectly  they  balance 
and  contrast  with  one  another  ! 

Tiie  story  is  a  sort  of  pastoral,  though  free 
from  all  insipidity,  seasoned  as  it  is  with 
wholesome  French  spico.      it  is  sentimental, 

429066 


iv  Introduction. 


but  free  from  mawkishiiess.  It  is  pure  as 
crystal,  and  yet  it  does  not  flaunt  this  purity 
with  a  hypocritical  grimace. 

It  is  often  said  that  France  has  no  word 
for  /io7}ie  because  the  French  do  not  know 
what  home  means.  "  The  Abbe'  Daniel  " 
shows  how  false  such  a  charge  is.  It  takes 
us  into  that  beautiful  home  life  which  the 
French  themselves  perhaps  avoid  displaying 
to  inquisitive  eyes,  but  which  is  really  the 
secret  of  the  true  stability  of  France.  We 
here  see  a  French  home,  and  we  finish  the 
perusal  of  the  book  with  a  new  respect  for  the 
French  farmer  and  the  French  girl,  the  French 
soldier  and  the  French  priest. 

N.    H.    Dc 


THE    ABBÉ    DANIEL 


CHAlMia<    I. 


Ski'Ti:mi!p:r  io,  1S3-. 

Dav   before   yesterday   I   was   twent}' 

\'ears  old,  and  I  left  the  seminary,  never 

to  return.      My  heart   is   full   of  jo\',  and 

a   sweet   fever   of  excitement  has  taken 

r  1 


The  4bbe  Daniel. 


po^se^sian  -  of  <n\ft  -Since  my  return  to 
iViy-'oWii"  dear- cou'ntry  home. 

I  have  renewed  the  acquaintance  of 
my  h'ttle  domain  of  Les  Bruasseries.  I 
have  visited  Les  Temph'ers,  where  my 
uncle  hves,  and  where  I  found  Denise 
once  more,  taller  and  more  beautiful 
than  she  was  a  year  ago.  She  is  now 
seventeen. 

This  morning"  I  crossed  the  meadow 
separating  Les  Bruasseries  from  Les 
Templiers  ;  I  made  my  way  up  to  the 
foot  of  the  pointed  turret  which  over- 
looks Ëtableaux.  From  there  the  whole 
valley  can  be  seen.  On  the  right,  Eta- 
bleaux  rises  in  terraces  on  its  rocky 
slope.  Below,  beyond  the  gentle  out- 
lines of  the  chestnut-trees,  the  Egronne 
makes  its  slow,  winding  way  through 
the  meadows,  now  hidden  under  the 
alders,    now   reappearing   with   dazzling 


The  Abbe  D.iin'c/.  ^ 


brillianc)'.  On  the  left,  in  the  far  dis- 
tance, the  town  of  Pressi\^"n\'  spreads 
out  Hke  a  fan,  aiul  tlie  river  bathes  the 
hist  of  its  houses.  The  sun  was  rising 
in  a  sk\'  of  spotless  blue  and  filling  the 
whole  valley  with  light.  What  a  feast 
for  the  eyes  !  What  beautifid  weather, 
and  what  a  jo)'  to  be  alive  ! 

The  other  evening,  when  I  went  to 
say  good-by  to  the  Abbé  Bonneau,  our 
superior,  I  found  him,  as  usual,  shut 
up  in  the  librar\'. 

"  Well,  my  son,"  he  said,  lifting  his 
already  sno\\\'  head,  "  }'ou  are  going 
to  leave  us?  " 

I  thanked  him  for  his  kindness  to 
me,  then  explained  to  him  that  T  did 
not  feel  a  sufficiently  decided  calling 
for  the  ecclesiastical  state,  and  that  I 
should  try  to  seek  m\'  salvation  while 
remaining  in   the   world. 


The  Abbe  DauieL 


**  My  son,"  he  replied,  in  his  slow 
v^oice,  *'  you  are  talking  of  what  you 
know  nothing  about  ;  the  world  sub- 
mits hearts  to  cruel  tests,  and  you  are 
one  of  those  to  whom  it  loves,  above 
all,  to  cause  suffering.  However,"  he 
added,  holding  out  his  hand  to  me, 
**  God  knows  how  to  reclaim  his  sheep. 
I  will  not  say  adieu  to  you,  but  an 
revoir  ;  for  if  I  read  my  heart  aright, 
you  will  come  back  to  us  again." 

Poor  abbé  !  Scarcely  two  days  later 
the  heavy  door  closed  behind  me,  and 
to-day  the  seminary  already  seems  like 
a  strange,  far-away  country  ! 

The  Evening  of  September  i8. 

The    clock     at  Pressigny    has     just 

struck    ten;     the  night    is    calm,    the 

house    is    at    rest,  and    I    alone    cannot 
sleep.   .   .  . 


The  Abbe  Daniel. 


To-day  was  Siin- 
ila)'.  We  did  not 
i^o  to  vespers,  and 
I  spent  the  after- 
noon at  Les  Temp- 
liers. The  weather 
was  briglit  and 
warm,  the  servants 
had  gone  out  for 
the  rest  of  the 
day  ;  m\'  uncle 
was  hunting,  and 
m\'  aunt  had  fallen 
asleep  while  read- 
ing her  prayer- 
book.  The  bells 
of  Pressigny  had 
been  ringing  a  long 
time,  and  had  just 
ceased.  The  hum 
of  insects,   accent- 


The  Abbé  DaiiieL 


uated  by  the  sharp  file  of  the  locust, 
pervaded  the  fields.  Denise  and  I 
were  sitting  at  the  foot  of  the  tower, 
near  some  raspberry-bushes.  We  were 
silent.  I  felt  happy  and  yet  troubled  ; 
I  should  have  been  glad  to  walk  about 
to  relieve  my  embarrassment,  and  yet 
I  remained  still.  She  too  seemed 
disturbed. 

"  Denise,"  I  said  at  last,  "  I  want 
to  ask  something  of  }'ou,  which  would 
make  me  very  happy.  .  .  .  Pick  that 
rose  over  there,  and  give  it  to  me." 

She  did  not  move;  and  I,  blushing 
for  shame,  dared  not  look  at  her.  Sud- 
denly, without  breaking  the  silence,  she 
got  up  and  \vent  slowly  toward  the 
rose  bush.  Her  hand  slipped  through 
the  branches  ;  but  while  breaking  off 
the  flower,  she  uttered  a  cry.  I  ran  to 
her;   the  thorns  had  wounded  her  arm. 


The  Abbe  Daniel. 


"It  is  nothing,"  she  said,  and  started 
to  move  awa}'.  I  took  her  liand  ;  I 
placed  111)'  trembling  finger  on  the  cut, 
from  which  a  single  drop  of  blood  was 
oozing.  She  trembled,  and  our  eyes 
met.  She  let  the  rose  fall,  and  we  fled 
from  each  other,  frightened  at  our 
temerity. 

I  spent  the  rest  of  the  day  wandering 
through  the  woods.  Every  time  I 
slackened  my  pace,  I  seemed  to  feel 
once  more  in  my  finger's  ends  the 
gentle  impression  of  her  delicate  flesh, 
torn   by  the  thorns. 

At  nightfall,  as  I  was  roaming  about 
Les  Templiers,  my  uncle  saw  me,  and 
called  to  me.  I  went  into  the  large  hall 
with  downcast  e)^es,  and  trembling  from 
head  to  foot.  Denise  was  bending  over 
the  fire,  and  I  could  not  see  her  face. 
A  tall,  light-complexioned  )'oung  man, 


8  Tlje  Abbé  Daniel. 


with  broad  shoulders  and  a  bold,  for- 
ward manner,  was  standing  near  the 
dining-table. 

"  You  must  take  supper  with  us," 
said  m\-  uncle,  "  and  with  this  young 
fellow  here.     Do  )-ou  remember  him?  " 

I  had  hardly  \entured  to  raise  my 
eyes  toward  the  new-comer,  when,  with 
a  burst  of  laughter,  he  exclaimed:  — 

"What!  little  Dani,  don't  you  re- 
member Simon  Beauvais,  of  Pressigny, 
who  fished  you  out  one  day,  when  you 
had  fallen  into  the  Egronne?  So  you 
have  thrown  oft"  the  cowl?"  And  his 
noisy  laughter  began  again. 

I  did  not  know  how  to  repl\',  and, 
confused  at  this  unfortunate  recollection 
brought  up  in  the  presence  of  Denise, 
I  shook  hands  with  the  giant,  who  then 
seated  himself  at  table,  next  my  cousin, 
I  kept  silent  throughout  supper,  while 


The  Abbé  Daniel. 


Ik^auvais,  made  more  jcn-ial  b}'  my 
uncle's  wine,  was  full  of  jests  and  merr\' 
tales,  Denise  seemed  preoccupied,  and 
her  words  were  few.  As  I  was  takin^; 
lea\x^  our  e)'cs  met,  but  she  quickly 
turnetl  awa\'  her  face,  and  I  went  back- 
to  Les  l^ruasseries,  with  my  head  full 
of  plans,  and  m\'  heart  filled  with  wague 
forebodings. 

Septemiîer  28. 
Simon  Beauvais  remains  at  Les  Tem- 
pliers. The  house  resounds  all  da}' 
long  with  his  coarse  laughter.  My 
uncle  shows  him  partialit)';  the  serwants 
cannot  say  enough  about  his  strength, 
his  spirits,  and  his  abilit\';  even  Denise 
is  under  the  charm  ;  while  L  unaccus- 
tomed to  any  kind  of  bodily  exercise, 
feel  more  awkward  and  timid  than  ever 
in   his  presence.      He  has  come  to  spoil 


lo  The  Abbé  Daniel. 


the  peaceful  happiness  that  I  was 
silently    enjoying. 

To-day  the  vintage  began  in  the  val- 
ley. A  glorious  sun  bathed  the  vines, 
with  their  foliage  already  turning  red. 
The  vintagers,  working  along  the 
slopes  on  the  side  of  Les  Murets, 
called  joyfully  to  one  another.  Wag- 
ons loaded  with  grapes  were  rolling 
along  the  roads,  and  an  intoxicating 
odor  of  sweet  new  wine  was  exhaled 
from  the  presses. 

Denise,  wearing  a  wide-brimmed 
straw  hat,  stepped  quietly  among  the 
\'ines  ;  I  followed  her,  happy  to  move 
about  with  her  in  the  same  warm  air, 
and  to  tread  the  sand  which  her  feet 
had  touched.  She  stopped  for  a  mo- 
ment under  a  walnut-tree;  the  warm 
weather  had  made  her  checks  glow, 
and     her    \Molct-colored    e}'es    sparkled 


r" 


TJ?e  Abbè  Damel. 


in  tlic  shadow  made  by  the  projcctin^^ 
rim  of  her  straw  hat.  Suddenl)-,  a 
few  steps  from  us,  appeared  Beauvais, 
dri\-ing  the  cart.  His  face  took  on 
that  expression  of  raiUery  which  ahva)'s 
disconcerts  me.  While  the  \'intagers 
were  emptyini^  their  baskets  into  the 
casks  on  the  wagon,  the  horse,  made 
restless  b\'  the  flies,  started  to  run. 
Beauvais  rushed  ahead,  seized  him  by 
the  bit  with  one  arm,  compelled  the 
kicking  beast  to  stand  still,  and  then 
looked  round  with  a  haught\-  smile. 
I  stole  a  glance  at  Denise  ;  her  eyes 
were  fixed  on  Beauvais,  and  her  face 
wore  an  expression  of  unconscious 
admiration.  T  felt  humiliated  ;  for  the 
first  time  jealousy  ate  into  my  heart, 
and  I   left  the  vine}'ard  abruptly. 


14  The  Abbe  Dcniiel. 


At  the  Seminary,  October  20. 

No,  I  was  not  made  for  life  in  the 
world,  and  the  Abbé  Bonneau  was  right. 
The  trial,  O  my  God,  was  not  long. 
I  could  not  remain  at  Les  Templiers; 
and  to  stay  even  at  Les  Bruasseries 
was  unbearable.  Denise  is  to  marry 
Beauvais  in  three  days.  They  were 
talking  about  the  marriage  when  I 
returned  to  Les  Bruasseries,  and  I  was 
the  only  one  who  knew  nothing  about 
it.  A  gossiping  servant-girl  took  it 
upon  herself  to  open  my  eyes.  I  felt 
my  heart  sink  within  me  ;  it  seemed  as 
if  a  thick  fog  suddenly  obscured  my 
bright  valley  of  the  Ëgronne.  I  spent 
a  night  in  tears,  and  in  the  morning 
I  fled  away  without  even  seeing  Denise 
for  the  last  time. 

I  reached  the  town  on  a  hot  evening. 
All   the  inhabitants  were  out  of  doors. 


The  Abbé  Daniel.  15 


I  passed  throuL;h  the  streets  bordered 
with  brilliant])'  lii^htcd  shops  and  filled 
with  a  gay,  lively,  animated  throng  ;  then 
I  plunged  into  the  dark,  solitary  quarter 
surrounding  the  cathedral.  The  old 
church  spread  its  great  shadow  over 
the  cloisters  and  the  walls  of  the  sem- 
inar}'. Carr\-ing  m\'  light  bag  in  one 
hand,  I  knocked  at  the  great  door  so 
familiar  to  me,  and  asked  for  the  supe- 
rior. I  was  shown  into  the  librarx'. 
At  the  farther  side,  at  the  end  of  two 
sombre  walls  of  books,  I  discovered 
him,  reading  by  his  little  lamp.  At 
the  sound  of  m\'  footsteps  he  raised 
his  head,  and  reaching  out  his  hand, 
said   in  his  calm  voice, — 

"  Well,  I  was  right  in  predicting  that 
you  would  come  back  to  us." 

Then  I  felt  that  all  was  at  an  c\\i\, 
and  could  onl}'  answer  him  with  a  sob. 


i6 


The  Abbé  Daniel. 


Fourteen  years  later,  March,  184-. 
While    arranging   my    books    I   came 
across   the   small   prayer-book   which    I 
used   at  Les   Templiers.     How   little   it 


'K- 


takes  to  make  my  mind  wander  and 
incline  to  forbidden  emotions  !  At 
the  sight  of  the  brown  binding  I  was 
touched.     My  poor  heart  reopened  like 


The  Abbe  Daniel.  17 


a  half-closed  wound.  Les  Templiers! 
in  spite  of  m}'self,  my  heart  is  al\va}'s 
at  Les  Templiers.  I  ha\'e  perused  my 
books  in  \'ain.  Saint  Augustine  now 
seems  artful,  and  Bossuet  merciless. 
May  God  come  to  my  aid,  for  left  to 
myself  I   fear  I  shall  be  overcome. 

At  the  seminary  I  was  sustained  by 
the  enthusiasm  of  faith,  by  the  attractive 
example  of  the  apostles'  self-sacrificing 
labors,  and  by  the  discipline  of  the 
house.  .  .  .  With  ecstasy  I  made  the 
sacrifice  of  m\'  will.  I  was  named 
\'icar  of  one  of  the  churches  in  the 
town.  The  pulpit  was  open  to  me, 
and  I  saw  an  attentive  congregation 
below  me.  I  prepared  and  studied 
my  sermons  with  care, —  all  my  }'outh 
rose  to  my  lips  ;  but  it  pleased  God 
to  give  me,  together  with  ordinar\' 
genius,  a  soul  less   ambitious  than   sen- 


I  s  The  Abbé  Daniel. 


sitive.  My  zeal  flagged  ;  moreover,  the 
city  with  its  passions  and  noisy  dis- 
tractions disturbed  and  shocked  me.  I 
believed  that  an  unknown  village,  hid- 
den in  the  \voods,  would  be  better 
suited    to   the    needs   of   my    heart.       I 

secured     a     parish    at     D ,     off    in 

Touraine,  twenty  leagues  from  Les 
Templiers.  I  welcomed  this  promise 
of  a  peaceful  life;  I  took  delight  in 
the  idea  of  burying  myself  at  thirty- 
three,  hoping  that  in  the  village  it 
would  at  least  be  granted  that  my 
soul  should  bring  forth  fruits  profitable 

to   the   parish.      I   have  been  in  D 

for  a  year.  I  have  four  hundred  parish- 
ioners scattered  about  in  their  little 
homes.  The  church  is  almost  alone, 
in  the  centre,  with  the  town-hall  and 
the  priest's  house.  My  dwelling  is 
humble   and    old,    but    peaceful   and    in 


The  Abbe  Darnel .  19 


accordance  with  my  tastes.  lichiiul 
it  there  is  quite  a  lar^^e,  sliadx'  \'arcl. 
What  more  do   I   need?   .   .   . 

My  friends  no  longer  write  to  me. 
All  that  are  left  of  m\'  famil\^  li\e  at 
Les  Templiers,  where  I  can  ne\'er 
return  Now  and  then  the  mail  brings 
me  a  commission  or  a  circular  bearing 
the  sui)erscription  :    "To    the    curate    of 

1) ."     No  more  letters  from  friends; 

\\K^  more  letters  to  Daniel  !    .   .   . 

Outside  m\'  parish  I  am  dead  ;  my 
parishioners  are  plain  people,  almost 
all  uneducated.  I  see  little  of  them 
except  on  Sunday;  during  the  week 
I  live  in  isolation.  ?^Iarie-Lène,  who 
ser\ed  m\'  predecessor  and  ser\'es  me, 
never  speaks  two  words  in  a  da\'.  She 
perpetually  wears,  as  it  were,  a  leaden 
bandage  on  her  forehead,  and  is  spend- 
in-'"  the  rest  of  her  da\-s  in  tirinsj"  herself 


20  The  Abbé  DiViicl. 


out  for  the  love  of  God.  I  have  no 
dog;  Marie-Lène  has  a  horror  of  ani- 
mals. Even  my  garden,  which  gave  me 
so  much  pleasure  last  year,  has  grown 
gloomy  like  my  life.  My  brother 
priests  of  the  neighboring  parishes  are 
all  advanced  in  years,  and  have  seden- 
tary habits;  moreover,  their  white  hair 
wins  my  respect  without  winning  my 
heart. 

And  here  I  am,  seized  with  home- 
sickness for  the  city.  The  annoyances 
of  the  town  have  given  place  to  other 
torments.  I  am  tired  of  solitude.  My 
parish  is  like  a  great  orchard,  where 
Nature  alone  reigns  peaceful  and  fruit- 
ful. The  city  is  more  or  less  in  sym- 
pathy with  every  vocation  ;  my  village 
knows  but  two  things,  —  manual  labor 
and  marriage.  I  have  no  bachelors 
over  tliirty.     Wherever  you  see  a  chim- 


The  Abbe  Daniel.  21 

ncy  smokinc^  among  the  walnut-trees, 
there  you  fnul  a  faniil\',  there  }'ou  fmtl 
children.  The  church,  the  town-hall. 
and  the  priest's  house  are  the  onl\' 
solitar}'  dwellinL^s  ;  but  the  church  has 
God,  and  e\'ery  Sunda)-  a  crowd  of 
tailhful  worshippers;  the  town-hall  has 
the  school,  swarniini;"  with  children; 
ni}'  abode  alone  is  forsaken.   .   ,   . 

Ah  !  p(X)r  pastor  so  out  of  place  !  — 
When  I  walk  on  the  lieii^hts  and  in  the 
hidtlen  roads  I  ani  a  pre\'  t(^  the  most 
contrar}'  thoui^hts.  If  ambition  comes 
to  smile  at  me  in  m}'  dreams,  a  \oice 
from  m\'  book  replies,  "  Ilumilit}' !  " 
To  the  recollections  of  a  too  worldl\- 
lo\-c,  the  same  voice  replies,  "  Chas- 
tit\'  !  "  To  the  weed  o{  friendship,  "  Iso- 
lation and  separation  !  "  .\nd  }'et  the 
corn  tremblini^  in  the  breeze  and  scatter- 
ing^ pollen,  the  birds  fl}-ini:^  to  their  nests 


2  2  The  Abbé  Daniel. 


hidden  among  the  branches,  the  women 
carrying  luncheon  to  their  husbands  or 
their  sons  in  the  vineyards,  the  peasants 
sino^incr  in  the  distance  at  ev^eninss;  when 
all  other  sounds  are  hushed,  —  what 
do  they  all  say  to  me?  —  "Marriage! 
family  !  "  .  .  . 

If  only  I  had  a  child  to  bring  up,  to 
teach,  to  love,  —  a  child  sleeping  under 
m.y  roof,  playing  about  my  door,  filling 
my  house  with   its  joyous  life  ! 

April,  184-. 
This  morning,  just  as  I  was  entering 
the  house  after  mass,  I  was  accosted 
by  an  aged  woman,  whom  I  did  not 
recognize  at  first.  It  was  La  Bruère, 
an  old  servant  living  with  Denise.  I 
had  not  seen  her  since  I  was  at  the 
seminary.  My  heart  beat  fast,  and  I 
was    conscious    of   growing    red    in    the 


The  Abbe  Daniel.  23 

face.  Somewhat  intimidated  by  my 
cassock,  she  approached  me  and  bowed, 
not  knowing  whether  to  call  me  Daniel 
or  Monsieur  le  curé. 

"  Surely,  you  never  thoui;ht  of  see- 
ing mc,  Monsieur  le  curé?"  she  said 
at  last.  "  I  came  here  on  account  of 
my  sister,  who  is  a  member  of  your 
parish.  I  ha\'e  just  come  from  Les 
Templiers,  where  ever}'  one  wished  to 
be  remembered  to  }'ou.  Our  mistress 
bade  me  '  go  without  fail  to  my  cousin's, 
and  inquire  for  his  health.'  Poor,  dear 
lady  !  She  has  alwa}'s  been  rather 
frail  since  her  little  Denise  was  born, 
three  }-ears  ago  come  Palm  Sunday. 
Oh,  }'ou  are  not  forgotten  at  Les  Tem- 
pliers, and  even  Monsieur  Beauvais 
said  to  me  :  *  Here  is  a  book  for  )'ou 
to  carr}'  to  our  cousin.'  .  .  .  And  the 
little  girl  !  Here  is  a  bunch  of  xiolets 
that  she  picked  herself." 


24  The  Abbe  Daniel. 


La  Bruère  was  always  very  talkative. 
Her  gossip  gave  me  time  to  compose 
myself.  I  was  able  to  question  her 
further  without  seeming  too  much  agi- 
tated, and  to  console  my  feeble  heart 
so  suddenly  awakened  from  a  sleep  of 
fourteen  years.   .  .   . 

They  are  happy  at  Les  Templiers  ! 
I  thought  so.  Why  should  they  not 
be  happy?  Beau  vais  is  all  attention  to 
my  cousin.  They  have  a  little  daugh- 
ter, whom  they  adore,  and  she  is  the 
living  picture  of  her  mother,  whose 
sweet  name  she  bears.  La  Bruère  did 
not  forget  the  least  detail,  she  told  me 
everything,  —  the  child's  pretty  ways, 
the  mother's  occupations,  Beauvais's 
feats  in  hunting.  I  seemed  to  see 
him  again,  my  fortunate  rival,  towering 
above  me;  and  I  saw  Denise  too,  so 
pale,  so  sweet  and  lovely,  and  I  went 
over  all  the  days  gone  by.  .  .  . 


The  Abbe  Daniel.  25 


Here  a  tear  rolled  down  011  the  white 
embroidery  of  my  neck-band,  and  spar- 
kled as  it  hung  there.  O  memories, 
why  have  I  called  you  forth?  O  my 
heart,  you  believed  yourself  indifferent 
to  the  world,  and  }'ou  are  moved  at  the 
recollection  of  a  woman  !   .  .   . 

They  have  a  little  daughter,  who 
looks  like  her  mother.   .   .  . 

April,  1S4-. 

A  frightful  accident!  Poor  man. 
where  arc  you  now?  ...  I  constantly 
see  your  look,  so  passing  strange. 
What  did  he  wish  to  say  to  me?  .  .  . 
May  God  have  mercy  upon  you  !  Poor 
woman,  about  to  become  a  mother! 
Poor  little  child  ! 

It  was  three  o'clock  in  the  afternoon. 
I  was  in  church,  and  they  were  sing- 
ing  the    Tejii'bne.      To-day  is    Alaundy- 


2  6  The  Abbé  Daniel. 


Thursday.  The  door  was  open  wide, 
and  let  in  the  gentle  spring  air.  The 
weather  was  as  mild  as  the  sweet  peace 
of  a  conscience  freshly  reconciled  with 
its  God.  Flowers  which  pious  young 
girls  had  heaped  upon  the  tomb  of  our 
Saviour  filled  the  air  with  their  fra- 
grance. I  was  sitting  in  my  •  accus- 
tomed place  among  the  children.  The 
women  were  ranged  in  front  of  the 
choir.  The  children  had  each  brought 
a  mallet  to  indicate  realistically  the  con- 
sternation of  Jerusalem.  This  circum- 
stance, together  with  the  coming  of 
spring,  made  them  more  restless  than 
usual.  Little  Daniel  especially  was 
more  uneasy  than  ever.  He  is  a  child 
of  eight  years.  For  a  long  time  I  have 
singled  him  out  among  his  companions 
for  his  good  behavior,  wide-awake  man- 
ner,  and    also    because    his    name   was 


The  Abbé  Daniel.  27 


Daniel,  like  my  own.  He  disputed  with 
his  nearest  neighbor,  and  tried  to  make 
his  way  to  my  side.  Children  are  so 
quick  to  guess  when  they  are  loved  ! 
According  to  the  custom  on  Maundy- 
Thursda}',  the  first  candles  of  yellow 
wax  had  been  extinguished,  and  I  was 
carried  in  spirit  to  Jerusalem.  Little 
Daniel  had  succeeded  in  slipping  to 
my  side  ;  the  mildness  of  the  air,  the 
perfume  of  the  flowers,  and  the  singing 
of  psalms  soon  closed  his  eyes,  and  he 
laid  his  sleepy  head  upon  my  arm. 
Next  to  the  last  candle  had  been  put 
out.  The  impatient  mallets  were  be- 
ginning to  be  heard,  when  all  of  a 
sudden  a  disturbance  spread  through 
the  church.  I  turned  my  head,  and 
saw  a  woman  running.  All  the  others 
rose,  crowded  together,  and  then  rushed 
out.     Some  one  came  to  me. 


28 


The  Abbé  Daniel. 


"  Monsieur  le  curé,  the  carpenter 
Peyré  (little  Daniel's  father),  while 
working  on  the  roof  of  the  new  house, 
has  fallen  into  the  street,  and  is  dying." 

I  went  out  in  my  surplice,  and  ran 
towards  the  new  house.  They  all  made 
room   for  me  as  I  came  near,  and  I  saw 


stretched  out  —  in,  oh,  my  God,  what 
a  condition  !  —  a  man,  who  opened  his 
great  eyes  toward  me,  looked  strangely 
into  my  face,  moved  his  lips,  and  was 
dead  ! 

His  wife  was  there,  by  his  side, 
motionless  as  a  statue.  The  people 
shrieked;    she   alone   was   dumb.      She 


The  Abbé  Daniel.  29 


is  soon  to  be  a  mother.  They  bore 
away  the  corpse,  and  took  the  widow 
home  ;  but  before  leaving,  she  raised 
her  eyes  to  the  top  of  the  house,  where 
the  bouquet,  placed  there  by  her  hus- 
band,  fluttered  its  gay  ribbons. 

Peyré  has  no  relatives  here  ;  he  did 
not  belong  to  this  part  of  the  country. 
The  widow  has  only  a  brother,  who 
has  children  himself.  All  are  pitifully 
poor.  Peyré  did  not  even  own  his 
dwelling.  Fortunatcl}%  I  still  have  the 
larger  part  of  the  rent  from  Les  Bruas- 
series  ;  but  what  can  money  do?  Oh, 
what  are  my  troubles  beside  this 
great  sorrow?  Wretch  that  I  am  to 
complain  ! 

When  I  was  taking  leave  of  the 
widow  my  attention  was  drawn  to  the 
heart-rending  cries  of  little  Daniel,  who 
had   just   been    sleeping  so  happily  on 


30  The  Abbé  Djiiiel. 


my  arm.  I  took  him  by  the  hand,  and 
led  him  home  with  me.  I  put  him  to 
bed  in  my  guest-room.  He  is  sleeping 
there  now.  His  tears  have  dried,  and 
left  his  cheeks  covered  with  stains. 

O  God  !  Does  thy  providence  sec 
fit  to  bring  me  consolation  through 
this  terrible  misfortune?  Is  Daniel  to 
be  my  Easter  gift  from  thee?  .   .   . 

Ten  days  later. 

May  the  peace  of  the  Lord  rest 
upon  her  throughout  all  ages  !    .   .  . 

Peyré's  wife  followed  her  husband 
after  ten  days.  I  buried  her  by  his 
side  with  her  unborn  child.  She  took 
to  her  bed  the  day  after  the  accident. 
She  would  neither  eat  nor  speak.  The 
doctor  despaired  of  her  from  the  first. 
She  seemed  quite  indifferent  to  her  son. 
However,  at  the  very  last,  as  she  held 


The  Abbe  Daniel. 


Daniel's  hand,  she  looked  at  him  with 
inexpressible  tenderness,  then  placed 
liis  hand  in  mine,  without  sa)'ini^  a 
word.     I   accepted  the  legacy. 

May,  1S4-. 

I  am  now  occup\'ing  a  new  room  ; 
I  g"a\'e  mine,  which  was  more  air\'  and 
pleasant,  to  Daniel.  It  seems  as  if  I 
had  changed  my  home,  and  as  if  I 
were  in  a  different  parish.  Peace  has 
come  back  to  me  since  I  took  this 
child  to  li\e  under  m\'  roof.  I  still 
think  often  of  Les  Templiers;  but  now 
without  bitterness  and  without  risk. 
If  Denise  has  a  little  girl,  I  ha\'e  a 
boy;  our  destinies  are  not  so  different, 
l^lessed  be  the  Lord,  who  has  sent  me 
this  child  ! 

M\"  little  Daniel  is  still  rather  slu' ; 
he    is    not    \et    tamed.       He    is    like    a 


The  Abbé  Daniel. 


bird  all  plumed  for  flight,  which  knows 
very  well  that  this  is  not  his  nest.  He 
is  like  the  flowers  we  gather  while  in 
bud,  which  do  not  revive  for  some 
time  ;  but  shy  as  he  is,  he  fills  my 
house  with   merriment. 

And  while  I  am  thus  satisfying  the 
desires  of  my  heart  and  relishing  this 
unhoped-for  paternity,  I  am  praised. 
I  am  extolled  and  blessed  throughout 
my  parish.  *'  Ah,  Monsieur  le  curé, 
how  good  you  are  to  do  this  !  The 
good  Lord  will  repay  you  !  "  I  hum- 
ble myself  before  God  every  evening. 
They  let  me  take  this  child  ;  they  have 
given  him  to  me  ;  he  is  mine,  —  a  beau- 
tiful, living  child  !  I  can  feed  him,  give 
him  a  home,  keep  him  in  my  house, 
and  they  ask  nothing  in  return  for  such 
a  treasure,  and  I  am  not  their  debtor; 
on  the  contrary,  they  thank  me  and 
Draisc  me  ! 


The  Abbe  Daiiid. 


ZZ 


Ah,  no  one  knows  tlie  peace,  the 
happiness,  that  this  young  guest  brings 
me  in  his  open,  outstretched  hands.  .  .  , 
I  have  a  child  ! 


CHAPTER    II. 


Here  the  journal  of  the  Abbé  Daniel 
comes  to  an  end. 

The  new  duties  that  came  with  the 
orphan  into  the  priest's  house  silenced 
his  troubled  thoughts  and  melancholy 
recollections.  He  was  obliged  to  tliink 
how  to  clothe  the  child,  how  to  get 
him   accustomed   to   his    new  surround- 


The  Abbe  Dan  id.  35 


ings,  —  above  all,  how  to  ci\'ilizc  him. 
And  the  abbe,  timid,  awkward,  and 
inexperienced  as  he  was,  found  it  no 
easy  task  to  concern  himself  with  the 
details  of  practical  life;  but  he  set 
about  it  with  all  his  heart.  All  his 
whole  store  of  affection,  so  long  pent 
up  in  him,  without  an}'  means  of  ex- 
pression, he  now^  lavished  on  the 
adopted  boy.  He  planned  his  clothing 
and  his  food  with  the  jo\'ous  ardor 
which  a  young  mother  feels  for  her 
first-born,  whom  love  tells  what  expe- 
rience can  ne\'er  teach.  E\ery  day 
he  s}:)ent  hours  watching  him  play,  and 
ever}'  night  looking  at  him  while  he 
slept. 

He  often  thought  of  Denise  still; 
but  the  thought  of  her  carried  with  it 
now  neither  regret  nor  disappointment. 
I  lenceforth   Denise  seemed  to  the  abbé 


7,6  The  Abbe  Daniel. 


only  as  the  happy  mother  of  a  child 
in  whom  \vould  reappear  later  on  all 
those  graces  and  that  bloom  of  youth 
which  he  had  formerly  loved  so  well. 
He  went  in  fancy  to  Les  Templiers  ; 
he  saw  the  child  growing  up;  he  heard 
her  fresh  laughter  in  the  midst  of  the 
orchard  ;  and  in  his  imagination  he 
associated  her  destiny  with  that  of  his 
own  child. 

Seven  years  passed  quickly  in  the 
midst  of  these  occupations  and  pleasant 
fancies,  and  then   La  Bruère  came  again 

to  D ,    and    this    time    she    brought 

sad  news  indeed.  Denise  had  never 
wholly  recovered  from  the  illness  fol- 
lowing her  confinement;  on  the  con- 
trary, she  seemed  to  grow  weaker  every 
day.  This  visit  left  the  abbé  anxious 
and  melancholy.  After  La  Bruère  had 
gone,   he    walked   up   and   down   in  the 


The  Abbe  Daniel.  37 


c^arden  for  a  long  time.  His  heart  was 
full  of  sadness,  both  sweet  and  bitter. 
Daniel,  now  quite  tall,  joined  him,  and 
after  he  had  taken  a  few  turns  with 
him   in  silence,  he  suddenly  asked:  — 

"What  is  the  matter,  cousin?"  (The 
abbé  had  taught  him  to  address  him 
in  this  familiar  \\a}M  The  abbé  lifted 
his  arm,  and,  placing  his  hand  on  his 
head,  replied,  "  I  ha\-e  you  !  "  and  he 
turned  his  thoughts  in  another  direc- 
tion, though  he  still  felt  that  his  heart 
was  too  full   for  utterance. 

The  bo\'  was  surel\' growing  up;  he 
was  nearly  sixteen,  and  would  soon 
have  to  be  separated  from  him.  lie 
had  gradually  completed  the  rather  cir- 
cumscribed course  of  studies  familiar 
to  the  abbé.  He  had  taken  his  first 
communion  ;  he  had  learned  French, 
ancient    histor)',    and    that    of    his    own 

4ii9066 


38  The  Abbé  Daniel. 


country.  The  abbé  had  noticed  that 
he  was  apt  to  grow  excited  as  he 
Hstened  to  tales  of  war,  but  that  he 
seemed  bored,  and  often  suppressed 
a  yawn  over  philosophical  dissertations  ; 
and  he  foresaw  that  a  contemplative, 
studious  life  would  not  be  suited  to 
him,  but  that  the  demon  of  adventure 
would  rouse  him  to  action.  When  this 
desire  for  active  life  should  awaken, 
what  would  become  of  the  poor  "  cou- 
sin"? Daniel  was  as  necessary  to  him 
as  his  daily  bread.  He  noticed  the 
growing  beauty  of  his  age,  and  he  saw 
with  terror  that  the  gentle  curves  of 
childhood  were  disappearing  in  his  face, 
and  giving  place  to  the  angles  of  ado- 
lescence. He  felt  that  in  two  years 
more,  perhaps  even  sooner,  it  would  be 
necessary  for  him  to  choose  a  career. 
W'ould    he  be   farmer,   merchant,  clerk. 


The  Abbe  Daniel. 


39 


or  what?  And  the  abbe  anxiously 
strove  to  disco\'er  the  first  signs  of 
what     Daniel's     preference    would     be; 


and  yet  there  was  nothing  that  he 
dreaded  so  much  as  the  very  thing 
that  he  was  on  the  lookout  for.  Be- 
sides these  anxieties,  he  was  every  day 


40  The  Abbe  Daniel. 


made  miserable  by  the  lad's  daring  and 
adventurous  spirit.  Daniel  played  with 
danger  as  with  a  flower;  nothing  sur- 
prised him,  and  nothing  would  stop 
him.  Quick,  strong,  and  always  good- 
natured,  he  was  the  life  and  light  of  the 
village  ;  he  was  seen  at  all  the  fêtes 
and  all  the  assemblies  ;  he  possessed 
something  of  the  nimbleness,  the  grace, 
and  also  the  w^ildness  of  the  squirrel. 
Once  he  had  been  brought  home  to 
the  priest's  house  all  bruised  by  falling 
from  a  horse,  —  a  young  horse,  that  he 
had  mounted  bareback,  and  ridden  on 
the  gallop  through  the  fields.  Another 
time  he  narrowly  escaped  drow^ning 
in  the  mill-pond,  into  which  he  had 
plunged  to  rescue  a  small  child. 

The  unhappy,  timid  ''  cousin  "  sighed, 
and  every  day  as  he  w^atched  him  go 
out  he  felt  all  the  anxiety  of  a  mother 


The  Abbe  Daniel.  41 


for  an  only  son.  Every  time  Daniel 
left  the  house  the  abbé  felt  inclined  to 
give  him  absolution  in  articulo  viortis ; 
but  how  delightful  were  the  hours 
which  followed,  when  his  fears  had  been 
put  to  flight!  Then  his  heart  felt  re- 
freshed as  by  a  gentle  spring  rain  ! 

One  evening  the\^  were  walking  to- 
gether along  the  high  road.  The  last 
sunset  tints  were  fading,  the  valley  was 
beginning  to  grow  dark;  but  along  the 
horizon  some  clearly  marked  lines  were 
still  \isible  against  the  orange-colored 
sk}'.  A  dark  form,  vigorously  out- 
lined, appeared  on  the  road  toward 
the  West,  and  a  sound  of  footsteps  was 
heard.  The  young  man  looked  at  this 
sudden  apparition  for  a  moment,  then 
exclaimed  :  — 

**  Cousin,  a   soldier  !  " 

To  be  sure,  it  was  a  foot-soldier;  with 


42  The  Abbé  Daniel, 


knapsack  on  his  back,  his  arms  lightly 
swinging  to  a  rhythmic  step,  he  was 
coming  toward  the  pedestrians.  lîe 
soon  met  them  and  quickly  passed  by. 
Some  mysterious  force  seemed  to  impel 
him  onward.  Everything  about  his  per- 
son was  expressive,  and  appeared  to  say  : 
*'  Faster  !  I  am  going  to  surprise  some 
one  yonder;  yonder  a  joy  awaits  me  !  " 

The  abbé  continued  to  walk  on,  but 
Daniel  stopped  and  was  following  the 
soldier  with  eager  eyes.  When  he  was 
lost  in  the  darkness,  he  exclaimed 
all   of  a  sudden  :  — 

"  Oh,  cousin,  do  you  know?  I  should 
like  to  be  a  soldier  !  " 

The  abbé  made  no  reply. 

"  Cousin,"  continued  the  boy,  "  have 
I   pained    you?" 

The  abbé,  still  silent,  went  on  his  way 
with    rapid  steps,  thinking  of  the  inex- 


The  Abbé  Daniel. 


pressiblc  anguish  of  the  coming  sepa- 
ration, and  mentally  repeating  these 
words  from  the  Gospel  of  Saint  Mat- 
thew :  "  Pater  mi,  .  .  .  no/i  sicut  ego 
volo,  sed  sieiit  tii!' .  .  .  "  Not  my  will, 
but  thine." 

The  next  day  at  noon,  the  postman 
brought  a  letter  from  Simon  Beauvais. 
Denise  was  seriously  ill,  and  begged  to 
be  remembered  in  her  cousin's  prayers. 
At  first  the  abbé  seemed  crushed  by 
the  blow,  then  he  went  straight  to  the 
church  and  remained  on  his  knees 
there  for  an  hour;  he  came  out  some- 
what strengthened,  but  not  composed, 
and  wandered  through  the  fields  till 
night,  lie  refused  to  take  any  supper 
when  he  returned,  went  into  the  garden, 
and  spent  most  of  the  night  walking 
in  order  to  soothe  his  mental  agitation 
b\'  bodily  fatigue. 


44  The  Abbé  Daniel. 


About  two  o'clock  in  the  morning 
the  coohiess  of  the  atmosphere  over- 
came him,  and  he  was  able  to  take  some 
rest.  He  was  awakened  at  four  by  a 
strange  rumbling,  which  proceeded  from 
a  neighboring  barn.  It  was  the  noise 
of  a  threshing-machine,  brought  to  the 
village  the  day  before,  the  mechanism 
of  which,  new  in  that  part  of  the 
country,  had  excited  Daniel's  admira- 
tion. This  dull  rumbling  was  an  added 
irritation  to  the  abbe's  very  sensitive 
nervous  system.  He  went  back  into 
the  garden  and  began  to  think  of 
Denise  again.  The  postman  went  by 
every  day  at  noon  ;  he  would  without 
doubt  bring  another  letter,  and  the 
abbé  decided  to  act  according  to  the 
news  it  would  contain,  and  if  necessary, 
to  set  out  for  Les  Templiers.  He 
walked    to    and    fro    in    the    garden    to 


The  Abbé  Daniel.  45 


weary  himself  and  to  pass  away  the 
time.  The  rumbling  of  the  threshing- 
machine  pursued  him.  He  went  back- 
to  his  room  and  packed  his  valise  with 
feverish  activity  in  order  to  be  ready 
when   noon   should   come. 

Daniel,  however,  did  not  know  what 
to  think.  Ever  since  the  day  before 
his  cousin  had  been  unapproachable. 
Several  times  already  he  had  tried  to 
ask  him  questions,  and  been  repulsed 
with  impatient  gestures.  Once  again 
he  \'entured  to  ask, — 

"  For  heaven's  sake,  cousin,  what  is 
the  matter  with  }'ou  ?  " 

"  Leave  me  alone,"  replied  the  abbé, 
shortl}'. 

Daniel  was  abashed,  and  went  to  the 
village,  where  he  alwa\'s  found  some 
new  amusement  ;  and  as  the  threshing- 
machine  fascinated  him,  he  entered  the 


46  The  Abbé  Daniel. 


barn,  and  was  soon  busy  feeding  it  with 
wheat. 

He  had  scarcely  left  the  priest's 
house  when  his  cousin  began  to  look 
for  him  everywhere. 

'*  Where  is  Daniel?  "  he  asked  Marie- 
Lène. 

Marie-Lène  shrugged  her  shoulders. 
"  Who   knows?  " 

"Where  is  Daniel?"  he  asked  again, 
of  a  child  playing  near. 

"  Gone  to  see  the  threshing-machine; 
he  is  pushing  in  the  straw." 

"The  rascal!"  exclaimed  the  abbé, 
and  he  ran  excitedly  toward  the  barn. 

The  neighbors  imagined  that  some 
misfortune  had  happened  to  Daniel; 
and  before  the  abbé  reached  the  barn, 
they  had  rushed  on  ahead,  and  all  sorts 
of  rumors  were  circulating  through  the 
village.       Everybody     hurried    to     the 


The  Abbé  Daniel.  47 


threshing-machine  and  began  to  lament. 
Meanwhile  the  abbé  arrived,  and  see- 
ing the  frightened  looks  of  the  crowd, 
felt  sure  that  some  accident  had  hap- 
pened to  his  charge.  Beside  himself, 
he  rushed  into  the  barn,  ran  to  the 
machine,  and  was  stupefied  to  ^nd 
Daniel,  unmindful  of  the  commotion, 
feeding  the  threshing-machine,  and 
pushing  in  the  grain  with  his  usual 
liveliness. 

It  was  but  the  work  of  a  moment 
for  the  abbé  to  run  to  him.,  seize  him 
round  the  waist,  and  throw  him  aside, 
h^very  one  was  amazed  at  his  violence. 

Then,  like  one  brought  back  to  life 
from  the  dead,  he  began  to  look 
anxiously  about  him.  The  threshing- 
machine  went  on  runibling.  Impelled 
b\'  some  strange  agitation,  some  ncces- 
sit)'    of    explaining    his    ridiculous    im- 


48  The  Abbé  Daniel, 

petuosity,  the  abbé  suddenly  seized  a 
sheaf  of  grain,  and  with  a  trembHng 
hand  pushed  it  into  the  mouth  of  the 
machine. 

"  Look,  look  !  "  he  exclaimed  ;  "  this 
is  what  Daniel  was  doing  !  Tell  me  if 
he  was  not  in  danger  of  having  his 
hand  cut  off!  " 

And  in  his  impatience  to  push  in 
the  feed  he  thrust  in  his  own  hand, 
felt  it  caught  by  the  machinery,  uttered 
a  cry,  and  drew  out  his  arm  all  bleeding 
and  mangled. 

The  abbé  was  carried  home  ;  a  trail 
of  blood  marked  his  path.  One  of  the 
villagers  mounted  his  horse  and  ran  to 
the  city  for  a  physician,  while  a  midwife 
made  the  first  dressing.  The  abbé 
remained  unconscious  for  a  long  time, 
and  then  gradually  came  to  himself. 
The    first    thincf    that    he    noticed    was 


The  Abbe  DauieL  49 


Daniel's  troubled  face,  and  he  tried 
to  smile  at  him  ;  but  weakened  by  the 
loss  of  blood,  he  was  obliged  to  close 
his  eyes,  and  again  became  uncon- 
scious. The  doctor  arrived  at  last, 
and  announced  that  it  would  be  neces- 
sary to  amputate  the  mutilated  arm 
immediately. 

When  the  operation  was  over,  the 
abbé  asked  what  time  it  was.  It  was 
two  o'clock.  Daniel  showed  him  a 
letter  from  Beauvais.  The  poor  abbé 
soon  read  it  ;  it  contained  only  this 
one  line:  "  Denise  is  dead."  The  abbé 
said  that  he  wanted  to  sleep,  sent  every 
one  out  of  the  room,  and  remained 
alone  on  his  bed,  still  soaked  though 
it  was  in  blood. 

When  evening  came,  Daniel  came 
back  into  the  room,  lighted  a  night- 
lamp,  and  sat  down  by  the  patient's 
4 


50  The  Abbé  Daniel. 


bedside.  The  abbé  was  asleep.  From 
time  to  time  the  young  man  wet  his 
forehead  witli  a  compress  of  cool  water. 
About  eleven  o'clock  he  seemed  deliri- 
ous and  began  to  talk  aloud.  The 
names  of  Denise  and  Daniel  often 
escaped  his  pale  lips.  Suddenly  he 
woke  up  and  saw  his  charge  in  tears. 

"Why  are  you  weeping?" 

"  Cousin,  will  you  take  this  medicine?" 

"■  No,  thank  you  ;  I  am  calm,  per- 
fectly calm.  .  .  .  He  pondered  for  a 
time;  then,  as  though  he  had  taken  a 
decided  resolution,  he  said   to  Daniel: 

**  Go,  bring  some  paper,  and  write 
for  me." 

He  dictated  a  letter  informing  Eeau- 
vais  of  his  accident.  He  added  that, 
as  henceforth  it  would  be  unbecoming 
for  him  to  say  mass,  he  purposed,  as 
soon    as   he    recovered,    to    go    to    Les 


The  Abbé  Daniel.  5 


Templiers,  and  if  Beauvais  would  allow 
him,  to  devote  himself  to  the  education 
of  the  dear  little  orphan  girl. 

When  the  letter  was  addressed  and 
sealed  the   abbé  said  :  — 

"  Vou  must  carr\'  this  yourself  to 
town  to-morrow  morning.  .  .  .  And 
now,  Daniel,  what  do  you  think  of 
this?" 

"  I  think,  my  dear  cousin,  that  it 
would  have  been  better  if  my  arm 
had  been  left  in  the  threshing-machine 
instead  of  your  hand." 

**  Let  us  not  speak  of  the  accident. 
What  do  you  think  of  this  letter?" 

Daniel  bent  his  head,  then  replied 
in  a  half-choked  voice  :  — 

"  I  believe  that  you  will  have  to  leave 
me  here." 

"  And  what  would  you  do  if  that 
should   be  the  case?" 


The  Abbé  Daniel. 


"  I  should  kill  myself,  cousin." 

The  abbé  looked  at  him  seriously, 
and  said  :  — 

"In  a  month  1  shall  be  well;  we 
have  no  time  to  lose.  When  you  have 
dropped  this  letter  in  the  box  to- 
morrow, go  to  the  gendarmery  and 
inquire  what  formalities  are  required 
for  entering  the  army.  In  a  month 
you  will  enlist  ...  in  the  infantry, 
not  the  cavalry  !  .  .  .  Now  go  to  bed 
and —  Wait,  listen  to  one  thing  more: 
Deny  the  sun  at  high  noon,  if  you  will, 
but  never  doubt  me.  .  .  .  Go  to  bed  !  " 

As  Daniel  was  leaving  the  room  the 
good  abbé  fell  back  on  his  pillow, 
murmuring  to  himself:  — 

"  Epaulets  and  a  uniform  !  That  will 
be  fine  !   fine  !  " 

A  month  later,  the  abbé  had  nearly 
recovered.      The  day  fixed   for  his  de- 


The  Abbé  Daniel.  53 


parti! re  had  come.  He  spoke  his  fare- 
well from  the  pulpit  to  his  parishioners, 
who  were  in  tears  ;  then  his  luggage 
was  placed  on  a  wagon  drawn  by  a 
mule,  he  said  good-by  to  the  impassive 
Marie-Lène,  and  they  took  the  road  for 
Tours. 

It  was  a  silent  journey.  Daniel 
looked  mournfully  after  the  last  groups 
of  trees  in  the  village  as  they  disap- 
peared from  sight  ;  the  abbé  considered 
what  good  advice  to  give  his  ward, — 
that  courage  is  nothing  without  reflec- 
tion, that  discipline  is  a  support  rather 
than  a  humiliation,  that  the  best  gifts 
of  the  mind  are  worthless  unless  culti- 
vated by  a  strong  will,  and  finally,  coun- 
sels appropriate  to  Daniel's  character. 

The  next  day,  at  Tours,  the  young 
man  enlisted  in  the  forty-ninth  regiment, 
stationed  at  Bordeaux.     The  recruiting' 


54  The  Abbé  Daniel. 


officer  asked  if  the  engagement  would 
be  for  two  years. 

*'  For  seven,"  answered  the  abbé, 
abruptly. 

Toward  evening  they  took  the  train 
together,  as  the  railway  for  Bordeaux 
went  in  the  direction  of  Les  Templiers. 
The  abbé  was  to  get  out  at  the  fourth 
station.  They  sat  f^icing  each  other 
without  saying  a  word,  and  even 
avoided  looking  at  cacli  other.  At 
the  third  station  the  abbé  tried  to 
speak,  but  he  felt  that  tears  would 
stifle  his  voice,  and  he  kept  silent. 
"  ?ort-de-Pilcs  !  "  called  the  conductor, 
and  the  train  stopped.  The  abbé  and 
Daniel  kissed  each  other  many  times, 
and  then  the  elder  got  out  alone. 
Daniel  handed  his  valise  to  him,  their 
hands  were  clasped  once  more,  and  the 
train   nioved  on. 


The  Abbe  Daniel.  55 


It  was  just  at  twilight.  The  abbé 
kvatched  the  train  speeding  awa}-  under 
its  long  pkime  of  smoke,  till  it  was  out 
of  sight.  He  thought  he  could  dis- 
tinguish a  white  handkerchief  fluttering 
at  one  of  the  doors,  and  he  waved  his 
left  arm.  .  .  .  Then  the  train  was  lost 
to  view  on  the  darkening  horizon;  and 
the  abbé,  leaving  the  station,  hastened 
along  a  cross-road,  which  disappeared 
between  two  thick  hedges. 


CHAPTER     III. 


The  abbé  had  still  five  leagues  to 
go  OR  foot  before  he  would  reach  Les 
Templiers  ;  but  the  night  was  fine,  and 
the  way  was  familiar  to  him.  One 
never  forgets  the  old  home  roads.  Be- 
sides, he  loved  the  walk.  Just  at  this 
particular  time,  when  his  heart  was 
so  full,  he  would  not  have  shortened 
the  distance  if  he  could.  He  was  glad 
to   be   alone.      After  young  bees   have 


The  Abbe  Daniel.  57 

emigrated  in  long  swarms,  there  is  a 
sudden  silence  around  the  hive.  A 
similar  silence  now  enveloped  the  abbé. 
No  longer  had  he  anj'where  a  home. 
It  mattered  little  to  him.  He  did  not 
wish  to  be  happy.  He  felt  at  this 
moment  strong  enough  to  endure  his 
sadness  for  seven  years.  And  then 
was  he  not  going  to  care  for  his  other 
child,  the  daughter  of  Denise?  How 
well  he  would  love  her,  bx)th  for 
Daniel's  sake,  and  for  her  mother's. 

*'  She  will  take  the  place  of  Daniel 
in  my  life,"  he  thought.  "  I  shall  have 
brought  up  these  two  children.  And 
who  can  say  then  that  m}'  life  has  been 
useless?  I  will  make  of  Denise  a 
charming  young  girl,  good  and  wise, 
like  her  mother.  I  shall  hold  in  my 
hands  the  destinies  of  two  young  souls, 
—  and    who    knows?       Perhaps,    some 


58  The  Abbé  Daniel. 


day,  I  may  join  together  these  two 
destinies,  so  that  they  will  be  but  one. 
Oh!  if  that  day  comes,  then  1  shall 
be  ready  to  die  !  But  Beauvais,  whom 
I  always  forget,  —  the  rich,  ironical 
Beauvais  !  —  Beauvais,  who  once  had 
only  to  show  his  face,  to  drive  me  off 
to  the  seminary.  .  .  .  Fortunately,  I 
have  seven  years  before  me.  And  to 
think  that  I  am  going  to  see  her  now, — 
the  daughter  of  Denise  !   .   .   .  " 

The  abbé  went  on  talking  to  himself 
in  this  melancholy  strain,  as  he  has- 
tened along.  In  the  moonlight  his 
thin  shadow  was  cast  before  him  on  the 
white  road,  and  seemed  to  be  running 
ahead.  It  was  midnight  when  he 
reached  the  borough  of  Pressigny. 
Les  Templiers  Vv'as  only  a  short  half- 
hour's  walk  from  there,  and  he  did  not 
wish   to   stop    in    the    borough.       How- 


The  Abbé  Daniel.  59 


ever,  he  had  not  informed  Beauvais 
that  he  should  come  that  night,  and 
he  shuddered  at  the  very  thought  of 
the  first  interview;  but  a  mysterious 
force  impelled  him  on  toward  the 
farm. 

When  he  reached  the  top  of  the  hill 
of  Les  Murets,  he  saw  the  steep  roof 
of  the  tower  softly  lighted  by  the  moon. 
Then  he  thought  no  more  of  Daniel  ; 
he  did  not  even  think  of  the  reception 
he  should  meet  with. 

There  it  was  before  him,  —  the  tower 
of  his  dreams  !  He  entered  the  court- 
yard, went  up  to  the  main  door,  on 
which  is  still  carved  the  cross  of  the 
Knights  Templars.  All  was  silent.  He 
went  straight  to  the  window  on  the 
ground-floor,  where  his  uncle  formerly 
slept,  and  rapped  on  the  shutters.  A 
man's  voice  called  out,  sleepily:  — 


6o  The  Abbé  Daniel. 


"■  Who  is  there  ?  "  and  ahnost  imme- 
diately the  shutters  were  thrown  open. 

"  It  is  I,"  murmured  the  abbé,  in  a 
timid  voice. 

"Who,  you?" 

"Yes,   Daniel." 

"I  will  open  the  door  for  you." 

A  large,  bearded  face  appeared  for 
an  instant  in  the  moonlight.  A  thread 
of  light  soon  came  through  the  shut- 
ters, which  Beauvais  had  mechanically 
closed  ;  then  heavy  steps  resounded  in 
the  hall. 

"After  all,"  thought  the  abbé,  "my 
Bruasseries  are  near  at  hand." 

For  a  moment  he  even  had  an  idea 
of  taking  refuge  there.  The  ray  of 
light  vanished,  the  steps  died  away. 
He  went  trembling  toward  the  door, 
which  finally  opened.  Beauvais  stood 
aside  to  let  his  guest  enter. 


The  Abbé  Daniel.  6i 


**  So  you  have  come  !  "  he  said, 
simply. 

"  I  am  rather  late,"  the  abbé  mur- 
mured, faintly. 

Without  replying,  Beauvais  carefully 
barred  the  door,  and  showed  him  into 
the  hall.  There  they  could  examine 
each  other.  They  were  equal  1}^  sur- 
prised ;  both  were  speechless.  Beau- 
vais was  nearly  twice  the  height  of  his- 
cousin,  and  as  large  in  proportion. 
The  night-dress  he  wore  disclosed  bare 
legs  of  herculean  proportions.  His 
bush}'  hair  and  thick,  ill-kempt  beard 
formed  a  disorderly  setting  to  his  high- 
colored  face.  In  spite  of  his  agitation, 
the  abbé  compared  him  mentally  to 
Nimrod,  the  wild  hunter  of  Scripture. 
Beauvais,  on  the  other  hand,  seemed 
to  be  looking  around  the  room  for 
his   cousin,   whom   he   had    just    let  in, 


62  The  Abbé  Daniel. 


the  cousin  rendered  thinner  and  more 
insignificant  than  ever  by  his  embar- 
rassment and  his  scanty  cassock,  while 
the  shadow  of  his  three-cornered  hat 
made  his  face  seem  smaller  and  more 
pale. 

'*  Pie  is  a  mere  child,"  said  Beauvais 
to  himself. 

"  I  will  go  to  Les  Bruasseries," 
thought  the  abbé. 

This  examination  lasted  but  a  second. 
Beauvais  set  the  lamp  on  the  table  and 
said  in  a  low  voice  :  — 

"So  here  you  are  !  "  Then  he  pressed 
the  abbé  's  slender  hand  in  his  great 
palms.  *'  You  are  at  home  here. 
Thank  you  for  coming,  but  do  not 
make  a  noise.  The  little  girl  is  asleep 
close  by;  I  want  to  give  her  a  surprise 
to-morrow  when  she  wakes.  .  .  .  You 
have  hardly  changed  at  all,  my  cousin  !  " 


The  Abbé  Daniel.  65 


The  abbé,  both  surprised  and  touched, 
replied  :  — 

"  Nor  have  you,  cousin." 

"Don't  make  any  noise,"  repeated 
Beauvais  in  an  undertone.  He  made 
his  cousin  sit  down  as  though  he  were 
a  child,  and  seated  himself  in  front  of 
him.  When  they  had  talked  for  some 
minutes,  all  the  while  examining  each 
other,  Beauvais  rose,  and  w^alking  on 
tip-toe,  went  into  the  kitchen  to  get 
some  cold  meat,  while  the  abbé,  left  in 
the  dark,  said  to  himself:  — 

"  How  different  he  is  from  what  I 
thought  just  now  !  " 

Beauvais  came  back  with  a  table- 
cloth, and  was  preparing  to  spread  it 
on  the  table. 

"  No,  no,"  said  his  cousin. 

"No!  why  not?"  replied  Beauvais. 
"  The  table-cloth,  you  see,  was  meant 
S 


66  The  Abbé  Daniel. 


for  the  curé,  but  for  tlie  cousin  it 
shall  be  the  oil-cloth,  such  as  I  have 
for  myself." 

He  placed  a  game  pie  on  the  table, 
then   brought  out  a  bottle  of  wine. 

"The  bottle,"  he  continued,  "was 
there  in  a  corner  waiting  for  you  ; 
the  wine  will  refresh  you  after  your 
fatigue;    it  is  Bordeaux." 

"  Bordeaux  !  "  exclaimed  the  cousin, 
thinking  of  Daniel. 

"  Hush  !  remember  the  little  one  !  .  . . 
How  happy  she  will  be  to-morrow  !  " 

Beauvais  took  two  glasses,  filled  them 
half-full,  and  wished  to  drink  a  health. 
The  abbé  looked  at  him  kindly.  The 
rough  huntsman  had  tears  in  his  eyes. 
As  he  drank,  all  his  grief  suddenly 
came  back  to  him. 

"Never  will  I  go  to  Les  Bruasseries  !  " 
said  the  abbé,  rashl\%  and  then  tried  te 


The  Abbé  Daniel.  67 


eat.  Both  were  silent  now  ;  the  soul  oi 
the  deceased  had  descended  between 
them,  and  both  struggled  not  to  speak 
of  her  wliom  they  wanted  so  much  to 
talk   about. 

Their  silence,  broken  only  by  occa- 
sional commonplace  remarks,  became 
painful.  After  ten  minutes  the  abbé 
pleaded  weariness  as  an  excuse  for 
retiring. 

"  I  will  accompany  you  to  your 
room,"  said  Beauvais,  and  together 
they  climbed  the  spiral  staircase  lead- 
ing to  the  tower.  "  Your  room  will  be 
rather  far  from  the  ground,  but  then 
you  asked  to  live  in  the  tower." 

The  room  was  all  ready.  Beauvais 
lighted  a  little  lamp  and  pressed  his 
cousin's  hand  once  more.  "  Good 
night,"  he  said  ;  "  to-morrow  you  will 
see   Denise  !  " 


68  The  Abbé  Daniel. 


He  went  away,  and  the  abbé,  after 
saying  a  short  prayer,  blew  out  his 
lamp  and  went  to  bed. 

The  room  was  full  of  sunlight  when 
the  sound  of  swallows  awoke  him 
about  eight  o'clock  the  next  morn- 
ing. He  rubbed  his  eyes,  and  for  a 
moment  did  not  know  where  he  was. 
He  ran  to  the  window  and  opened  it. 
To  the  right  the  ruins  of  the  old  castle 
rose  perpendicularly  on  the  hill  of 
Etableaux  ;  below,  the  Ëgronne  wound 
through  the  meadows,  between  two 
rows  of  alders  ;  and  on  the  left,  in  the 
distance,  the  chimneys  on  the  blue 
roofs  of  Pressigny  were  smoking;  the 
dam  at  Etableaux  roared,  and  the 
swallows  uttered  a  sharp  cry  as  their 
wings  grazed  the  window-sill  ;  then  they 
mounted  into  the  air  and  were  lost  in 
the  blue  ether. 


The  Abbé  Daniel.  69 


The  abbé  took  in  all  the  sights  and 
sounds,  inhaled  the  morning  breeze,  and 
thought  that  he  was  dreaming.  .   .  . 

Suddenly  a  silvery  voice  reached  his 
ear,  the  vibrating  tones  of  his  dearly 
loved  Denise.  "  Petit-Pinson,"  sang 
the  little  voice,  "  when  I  tell  you  there 
are  nests  in  the  service-trees,  it  is  be- 
cause I  know  there  are  !   .   .   ." 

No,  no,  Denise  was  not  dead,  for 
she  had  just  spoken.  He  leaned  out 
of  the  window  to  try  to  catch  sight  of 
her,  but  his  eyes  met  only  the  green 
tops  of  the  trees.  He  listened  for  a 
long  time,  but  the  voice  was  silent. 
Had  he  really  heard  it?  Was  it  not 
a  dream?  He  was  moving  away,  when 
he  noticed  a  pot  of  verbenas  in  bloom 
on  the  window-sill. 

Who  had  placed  it  there? 

He  hastened  to  dress,  in  order  to  see 


70  The  Abbé  Daniel. 


the  little  girl,  and  while  he  was  dressing 
it  occurred  to  him  that  Daniel  had  now 
reached  Bordeaux.  Just  as  he  was 
going  out,  Beauvais,  who  had  been 
watching  for  him,  came  to  him  in  haste 
and  pushed  him  back  into  the  tower, 
saying:  "Go  back;  I  am  going  to 
find    my  little  daughter  !  " 

The  abbé  went  back  into  his  room, 
and  soon  heard  the  sound  of  Beauvais's 
heavy  shoes  on  the  stairs;  then  he 
noticed  a  prattling  and  rustling.  He 
listened. 

"  A  beautiful  swallow  is  up  there  with 
her  little  ones;  you  will  see,"  said  Beau- 
vais's deep  voice  ;  and  a  pretty  voice, 
the  voice  he  had  just  heard,  replied  :  — 

**  Walk  very  softly  so  as  not  to 
frighten  them." 

The  abbé  felt  his  knees  tremble,  and 
sat  down. 


The  Abbe  Daniel.  71 


"  Papa,  go  in  first,  but  very  softly, 
very  softly,"  said  the  silvery  voice 
again. 

The  door  opened  a  little,  then  wider, 
and  Beauvais  pushed  the  little  girl  into 
the  abbe's  arms, 

Denise  stopped  in  amazement,  the 
cousin  did  not  move  from  his  chair. 
Beauvais  looked  at  them.  Finally  the 
cousin  passed  his  hand  across  his  fore- 
head, then  he  smiled  in  a  bewildered 
way.  The  Denise  of  long  ago  was 
before  his  eyes. 

She  was  dainty,  rather  slight,  with 
chestnut  hair,  a  rosy  complexion, 
slightly  sun-burned,  with  large,  solemn, 
blue  eyes,  the  pupils  of  which  were 
both  brilliant  and  velvety.  Her  broad, 
prominent  forehead,  the  honest,  reso- 
lute, frank  eyes,  her  little  rosy  nose 
with   mobile  nostrils,  gave   to   her   facç 


72  The  Abbé  Daniel. 


a  wonderful  expression  of  vivacity,  en- 
ergy, and  resolution,  softened  by  a 
pleasant,  childlike  smile.  She  was  not 
exactly  pretty,  but  she  was  fascinating. 

The  abbé  held  out  his  hand  to  her, 
but  she  did  not  dare  to  go  to  him. 

**  Are  you  afraid  of  me,  my  child?  " 

"  Yes,  sir." 

Daniel  rose,  bent  dow^i,  and  kissed  her 
forehead  ;   then  he  said  to  Beauvais  :  — 

*' She  is  our  child,  isn't  she?" 

Beauvais  was  radiant  with  joy  and 
paternal  pride.  When  they  had  be- 
come somewhat  acquainted,  all  three 
went  down  into  the  garden,  where  they 
found  La  Bruère  the  very  first  thing. 
They  had  to  stop  and  listen  to  her 
exclamations  :  — 

"  Oh,  Monsieur  le  curé,  the  dear  man 
of  God,  here  you  are  as  though  you 
had  just  come  back  from  the  war,  with 


The  Abbé  Daniel.  73 


one  arm  less  !  Ah,  what  a  misfortune, 
good  friends  !  And  on  just  the  very 
day  when  our  mistress  was  buried. 
Oh,  my  good  friends,  who  would  have 
thought  it?  " 

After  listening  to  La  Bruère's  words 
of  sympathy,  he  had  to  visit  every 
nook  and  corner  of  Les  Templiers. 
Denise  had  skipped  away.  They  went 
from  barn  to  barn,  from  granary  to 
granary,  while  Beauvais  made  explana- 
tions and  the  abbé  recalled  old  memo- 
ries. After  a  complete  survey,  Beauvais 
exclaimed  :  — 

"  My  cousin,  here  is  the  best  thing 
of  all  ;   I  have  kept  this  for  the  last." 

He  took  him  into  a  new  stable,  and 
with  his  head  thrown  back  and  folded 
arms  he  fixed  his  eyes  on  his  cousin 
as  though  he  expected  him  to  utter 
some    exclamation.      The   abbé   looked 


74  The  Abbé  Daniel. 


with  all  his  eyes.  The  stable  contained 
one  horse  and  one  cow.  Was  it  the 
horse  or  the  cow  which  he  ought  to 
admire?  Great  was  the  abbe's  embar- 
rassment. After  some  moments  of 
silence,  Beauvais  said,  with  an  air  of 
disappointment:  — 

"  Come,  it  is  too  bad  !  You  don't 
understand  anything  about  it.  Let  us 
take  it  that  you  have  n't  seen  anything." 

Just  at  this  moment  the  abbé  saw 
once  more  in  his  former  rival's  face  a 
gleam  of  the  old  irony. 

"  This  horse,"  continued  Beauvais, 
"  has  not  its  equal  for  twenty  leagues 
around.  Now  let  us  go  to  Les 
Bruasseries." 

They  did  not  return  to  Les  Templiers 
till  nearly  noon,  in  time  for  dinner.  The 
cousin  was  naturally  seated  between  the 
father   and    daughter  ;    but  long  before 


The  Abbé  Daniel. 


75 


dessert  Denise  had  disappeared,  and  the 
abbé  heard  her  in  the  garden  carrying 
on  a  lively  dispute  with   Petit-Pinson. 

Petit-Pinson  was  a 
boy  of  fifteen,  more 
than  a  head  taller 
than  Denise  ;  but  in 
spite  of  his  size,  ob- 
stinately called  Petit- 
Pinson  by  the  child. 
Petit-Pinson  was  La 
Bruère's  factotum  and 
Beauvais's  shepherd- 
bo}'.  Among  his 
flock  there  was  an  ass 
which  was,  it  seemed, 
Denise's  particular 
property,  and  was  called  Benoît,  At  this 
time  the  shepherd-boy  wanted  to  take 
his  cattle  to  Les  Ëpinaies,  and  the  choice 
of  pasturage  did  not  please  Denise. 


76  The  Abbé  Daniel. 

"  I  tell  you,"  she  cried,  in  her  pretty, 
decided  voice,  —  "I  tell  you,  Petit- 
Pinson,  that  Benoît  shall  not  go  to 
Les   Epinaies  !  " 

Petit-Pinson  held  Benoît  by  the  ear, 
Denise  was  pulling  him  by  the  halter. 

"  Who  will  win  the  victory?  "  thought 
the  abbé,  who  vv^as  watching  the  scene. 

It  was  Denise.  She  led  Benoît  quietly 
to  the  stable,  then  came  back  and  took 
her  seat  at  the  table. 

"  She  has  a  will  of  her  own  !  "  said 
the  abbé,  in  amazement. 

Dinner  over,  Beauvais  declared  that 
business  called  him  to  the  fair  at 
Lésigny. 

"  I  would  take  you  along,"  he 
added,  addressing  Daniel;  "but  what 
would  you  do  in  the  midst  of  a  mule- 
market?  " 

He  started  off,  and  the  abbé  went  to 


The  Abbe  Daniel.  77 


walk  with  Denise.  At  night  they  took 
supper  alone  together,  for  Beauvais 
did  not  return  till  late.  Thus  passed 
the  first  day. 

Days,  weeks,  months  succeeded  each 
other.  When  he  left  Daniel  the  abbé 
believed  that  he  was  condemned  to 
seven  years  of  sorrow  ;  he  was  quite 
surprised  to  find  himself  sweetly  happy. 
He  was  like  a  man  sitting  by  a  window, 
before  which  the  picture  of  happiness 
passes  slowly  back  and  forth.  He  was 
happy  and  felt  calmed.  Life  on  the 
farm  suited  his  nature,  prone  to  timid- 
ity and  listless  dreaming.  Everything 
which  interested  the  household  de- 
lighted him.  The  neglected  garden, 
full  of  grass,  with  its  paths  overgrown 
with  fennel  and  anise,  with  its  arbor 
broken  down  with  the  weight  of  honey- 
suckle   and    clematis  ;     the    hen-house, 


78  The  Abbé  Daniel. 


once  the  chapel  of  Les  TempHers,  where 
the  hens  laid  their  eggs  in  the  niches 
of  mutilated  saints  ;  the  fig-tree  shad- 
ing the  corner  of  the  green  court-yard 
with  its  thick  branches  ;  the  pigeons, 
with  melodious  wings,  which  came  to 
quench  their  thirst  in  the  water  run- 
ning in  the  gutters  ;  the  great  heaps 
of  straw  in  the  sunshine  ;  the  cows 
exhaling  an  odor  of  milk  as  they  went 
along  solemnly  to  pasture;  the  gun- 
shots resounding  in  the  woods  of  Les 
Courtils  and  the  baying  of  the  hounds; 
the  bleating  of  the  sheep  mingled  with 
the  melancholy  calls  of  the  shepherd- 
boys  at  evening;  and  in  the  morning 
the  clear  tones  of  the  bells  of  Pressigny, 
chiming  together, — the  abbé  delighted 
in  all  this.  Like  a  bee  gathering  honey 
from  every  flower,  he  found  his  pleas- 
ures in  the  smallest  details  of  rustic  life. 


The  Abbe  Daniel. 


79 


Winter  came,  less  rich  in  gifts  than 
autumn,  but  abounding  in  quiet  social 
pleasures.      There   were   more   frequent 


reunions  and  assembhcs,  especially  in 
the  evening,  in  the  great  hall,  now 
changed  to  a  kitchen.  Hie  granite 
fireplace    offered    hospitality   to    ev^ery- 


8o  The  Abbé  Daniel. 


body.  The  latest  news  from  Pressigny 
and  the  neighboring  villages  was  told 
here  ;  long  stories  also  of  the  time  of  the 
Knights  Templars,  or  else  the  legend 
of  the  washerwoman,  whose  bats  could 
be  heard  at  midnight  near  the  fountain 
of  Font-Gaudron. 

Petit-Pinson,  with  wide-open  eyes, 
looked  frightened  to  death  as  he  lis- 
tened to  everything,  and  curled  himself 
up  in  his  corner.  La  Bruère  spun, 
Beauvais  cleaned  his  gun,  the  abbé 
and  Denise  sometimes  looked  at  a 
picture-book  ;  and  when  Denise  had 
explained  the  picture  to  her  cousin, 
the  cousin  would  explain  the  text  to 
Denise. 

Beauvais  too  was  happy.  The  com- 
ing of  the  abbé  allowed  him  to  keep 
his  daughter  at  Les  Templiers.  Dur- 
ing    his     frequent     absences     he     was 


The  Abbe  Daniel.  8i 


content  to  know  that  his  people  were 
united  there   and  awaiting  his  return. 

This  thought  kept  him  warm  in 
Winter  and  cool  in  Summer,  and  he 
came  back  to  his  home  as  gladly  as  he 
left  it.  He  was  master  of  the  house, 
and  sometimes  chose  to  make  the 
kitchen  resound  with  the  roar  of  his 
commanding  voice.  But  this  tremen- 
dous voice  was  rarely  terrible.  More- 
over, Denise  knew  how  to  change  his 
anger  to  caresses,  when  necessary,  and 
her  cousin   was  her   ally. 

At  first  the  abbé  had  tried  to  win 
Beauvais's  good-will  by  compelling  him- 
self to  admire  his  host's  horses  and 
dogs;  but  in  this  little  game  the 
countryman  quickly  detected  his  con- 
straint, and  a  sort  of  condescension 
which  still  further  showed  his  cousin's 
incompetency.  He  did  not  make  sport 
6 


82  The  Abbé  Daniel. 


of  him,  but  it  was  plain  to  see  from 
his  bantering  manner  that  he  did  not 
consider  him  a  practical  person,  or 
one  to  get  anything  out  of  Beauvais 
was  something  of  a  jockey,  and  the 
qualities  inherent  to  this  profession 
were  most  repugnant  to  the  abbé. 
These  two  men  held  each  other  in 
esteem,  they  lov^ed  each  other  at  heart, 
but  did  not  always  understand  each 
other.  A  bargain  of  a  hundred  francs 
or  of  a  thousand  francs  was  all  the  same 
to  the  abbé  ;  to  Beauvais  nothing  was 
so  serious  as  business.  One  kept  his 
eyes  on  the  stars,  the  other  on  the 
earth,  and  the  star-gazer  was  often 
tripped  up  by  contact  with  terrestrial 
realities,  like  the  astrologer  in  the  fable. 
Beauvais  took  it  upon  him  to  over- 
whelm his  cousin  with  his  hca\y  artil- 
lery of  ironical  jests;   but  when   Denise 


The  Abbe  Daniel.  83 


showed  her  father  her  copy-books  in 
the  evening  and  explained  her  progress 
to  him,  Beauvais  felt  proud,  and  then 
be  would  suddenly  break  out  into 
exclamations  of  gratitude  to  the  abbé, 
which  would  mend  e\'er}'thing  and 
fill  La  Bruère  with  admiration. 

La  Bruère  was  the  oldest  person  in 
the  house.  She  was  twenty  years  older 
than  her  master,  who  found  her  well 
established  at  Les  Templiers  when  he 
came  there  to  be  married.  She  was  an 
old  maid,  thin,  alert,  and  a  gossip,  not 
cross,  but  domineering,  giving  Petit- 
Pi  nson  three  apples  for  a  box  on  the 
ear,  bustling  about  all  day,  and  relating 
her  dreams. 

She  showed  great  deference  toward 
the  abbé,  for  he  had  but  one  arm  ; 
he  was  a  priest,  and  she  had  known  him 
as  a  child.      It  pleased   her,  besides,  in 


84  The  Abbé  Daniel. 


her  old  age,  to  have  a  cure  permanently 
at  the  farm.  She  called  him  ^//r  cousin, 
and  regarded  him  as  a  good  man, 
something  of  a  dreamer,  and  harmless. 
Her  sympathies,  however,  were  more 
with  Beauvais.  The  strong  woman 
admired  the  strength  of  the  man,  and 
she  took  his  part.  However,  she  often 
snubbed  him,  for  La  Bruere  was  an 
independent  ally. 

Petit-Pinson  was  a  submissive  ally, 
or  rather  he  was  La  Bruère's  private 
possession.  He  was  awkward,  lazy, 
and  a  good  deal  of  a  glutton,  but  he 
had  great  respect  for  the  old  servant, 
and  feared  but  two  things,  —  La  Bruere 
and  the  were-wolf 

And  Denise.?  Denise  was  like  a  wild 
flower,  and  had  the  freshness,  the 
capricious  grace,  and  the  vigor  of  all 
wild    things.       She    loved     her    cousin 


The  Abbe  DjuieL  S5 

from  the  very  first,  because  he  had  pre- 
vented her  from  being  sent  to  boarding- 
school.  The  city  was  to  her  a  terrible 
place;  her  father  had  taken  her  there 
twice  to  the  fair,  and  the  swarming, 
screaming,  hustling  crowd  of  people 
had  given  her  a  horror  of  ci^/ilization. 
She  did  not  even  like  Pressigny,  where 
people  stared  at  her  so  ;  and  when 
strangers  came  to  Les  Templiers  she 
fled  to  the  orchard. 

The  solitude  of  the  fields,  the  various 
sounds  on  the  farm,  the  deep  shade  of 
the  woods,  —  these  were  the  society  she 
lo\'ed.  She  was  not  gay,  nor  }'et  mel- 
ancholy; she  had  moods  of  agitation 
and  of  inactivity,  of  excitement  and 
indifference,  which  came  and  went  no 
one  could  tell  win'.  She  had  not  cared 
for  dolls  since  her  first  communion, 
and  did  not  yet  care  for  books;    needles 


S6  The  Abbé  Daniel. 

broke  like  glass  between  her  fingers, 
and  sedentary  tasks  could  not  keep  her 
long.  In  spite  of  this  mobile  nature  and 
capricious  disposition,  she  had  a  will  of 
iron  and  an  energ}'  which  Petit-Pinson 
was  not  always  the  only  one  to  per- 
ceive. She  w^as  affected  as  little  by 
Beauvais's  and  La  Bruère's  fits  of  anger 
as  a  swallow  by  a  rain  storm.  This 
mixture  of  shyness  and  restless  mo- 
bility at  first  dismayed  her  cousin,  and 
he  asked  himself,  in  alarm,  how  he 
should  succeed  in  directing  aright  a 
soul  of  such  extremes,  an  intelligence 
of  such  marv^cllous  contradictions. 

In  place  of  energy  the  abbé  pos- 
sessed an  inexhaustible  affection,  such 
as  finally  triumphs  over  the  most  stub- 
born obstinacy.  Then,  in  the  most 
hidden  recess  of  his  heart,  was  he  not 
cherishing  a  plan  which  he  had  only  to 


The  Abbé  Daniel. 


think  of  to  acquire  new  strength  and 
courage?  .   .   . 

From  the  very  day  of  his  arrival  at 
Les  Temphers,  the  abbé  wished  to  have 
his  position  there  regulated.  His  whole 
income  was  six  hundred  francs,  —  the 
rent  of  Les  Bruasseries.  Li  spite  of 
Beauvais's  protestations,  he  had  stipu- 
lated that  he  should  pay  him  three  hun- 
dred francs  a  year.  With  the  surplus, 
he  was  able  to  send  ten  francs  a  month 
to  Daniel,  to  clothe  himself,  and  make 
presents  to  Denise,  La  Bruère,  and 
even  Petit-Pinson.  Once  free  from 
these  material  details,  he  arranged  his 
days.  The  whole  week,  with  the  ex- 
ception of  Sunday,  was  devoted  to 
Denise. 

During  the  week  the  abbé  dressed 
like  a  countr}'  layman  ;  but  on  Sunday 
it   was    quite    another    thing.     On    that 


88  The  Abbé  Daniel. 


day  a  veritable  priest  came  down  out 
of  the  tower:  shovel-hat,  band,  black 
stockings,  shoes  with  silver  buckles, 
cassock  of  fine  cloth,  — ~  nothing  was 
wanting.  At  nine  o'clock  he  started 
for  the  church  at  Pressigny,  in  com- 
pany with  La  Bruère,  Petit-Pinson,  and 
Denise.  During  mass  he  took  his 
place  with  the  surpliced  choir,  and 
from  his  stall,  through  the  smoke  of 
the  incense,  often  watched  Denise 
praying,  with  her  head  bent  over  her 
little  prayer-book,  in  the  shadow  of  a 
pillar. 

Denise! — she  was  his  joy  and  his 
blessing;  she  was  his  work,  also.  He 
watched  the  blossoming  of  her  intelli- 
gence with  the  tender  solicitude  which 
a  horticulturist  gives  a  favorite  rose 
just  opening  from  a  bud.  Denise  was 
now  a  young   girl;     the    petulance    of 


The  Abbé  Daniel.  89 


childhood  was  already  disappearing, 
to  give  place  to  bashful  awkwardness 
and  nervous  excitement.  In  a  short 
time  she  would  be  a  young  woman,  and 
all  her  fine,  energetic,  feminine  nature 
would  attain  its  full  development. 

"  Make  haste,"  said  the  abbé  to  him- 
self; "  make  haste  to  sow  the  seed, 
that  it  may  bring  forth  good  fruit  in 
season." 

And  he  poured  out  over  her  all  his 
treasures  of  knowledge,  wisdom,  and 
observation.  He  wished  to  inspire  in 
her  especially,  not  a  love  for  books, 
but  a  taste  for  serious  occupations, 
and  to  cultivate  her  love  for  rural 
nature.  Whenever  the  weather  was 
suitable  they  took  long  walks  together. 
Sometimes  they  would  go  on  ahead, 
and  Beauvais  would  follow  to  bring 
them   back  in  the  carriage  ;    sometimes 


90  The  Abbé  Daniel. 


they  would  wander  through  the  fields, 
or  follow  the  course  of  the  Egronne. 
They  always  brought  back  a  quantity 
of  flowers  ;  and  when  the  peasants 
saw  them  pass,  the  gray-haired  priest 
with  one  hand,  and  the  girl  wearing  a 
red  cap  on  her  head,  both  with  their 
hands  full  of  flowers,  they  always  gave 
them  a  hearty  greeting,  a  pleasant 
word,  and  a  cheerful  smile. 

So  Denise  was  growing  up  in  the 
bosom  of  this  rustic,  fruitful  nature, 
with  her  father  and  the  abbé,  in  an 
atmosphere  impregnated  with  love. 

One  June  evening,  there  was  a  won- 
derful occurrence  in  the  large  hall  at 
Les  Templiers.  Beauvais  would  not 
return  till  very  late.  Denise  and  her 
cousin  were  alone,  or  very  nearly  so, 
for  La  Bruere  was  scalding  the  linen, 
and  Petit-Pinson  was  asleep  in  his  chair. 


(.■  ' 


% 


1    \     ''^*^.--- 


The  Abhc  Daniel.  93 


A  bouquet  gathered  in  the  morning 
was  on  the  table,  and  the  lamp,  covered 
with  a  shade,  gave  a  soft  light.  When 
the  evening  reading  was  over,  the  abbé 
pushed  the  vase  near  Denise  and  the 
lamp,  and  turned  it  slowly,  that  his 
pupil  might  admire  the  bouquet  on  all 
sides. 

In  the  centre  there  was  a  splendid 
white  water-lily,  half-closed,  and  full  of 
mystery  ;  around  it  slender  grasses  trem- 
bled, forming  a  changing  lace-work,  in 
which  all  sorts  of  field,  water,  and  wood 
plants  were  carelessly  mingled,  and 
opened  their  blossoms  in  the  lamp- 
light. There  were  bells  and  cups, 
thyrses  and  variegated  flowers,  places 
full  of  light  and  shadowy  depths.  A 
dear  little  pale-green  spider  was  sus- 
pended from  a  white  lily-of-the-valley, 
and    a    golden-eyed    fly,    with    yellow, 


94  The  Abbé  Daniel. 

gauzy  wings,  fluttered  about,  half  im- 
prisoned in  the  network  of  intertwining 
grasses.  As  the  abbé  turned  the  vase, 
a  fine,  silvery  powder  fell  from  all  the 
stamens,  and  hovered  like  smoke  above 
the  bouquet,  giving  forth  an  exquisite, 
penetrating  perfume. 

Denise  suddenly  uttered  a  cry  of 
admiration,  and  buried  her  face  in  her 
hands.  When  she  raised  her  head,  her 
eyes  were  full  of  tears,  but  tears  of  joy  ; 
her  eyes  were  so  brilliant  that  the  abbé 
was  amazed  ;  her  animated  features  and 
rosy  cheeks  gave  her  face  a  new  ex- 
pression, and  she  was  transformed. 
Her  cousin,  dazzled  by  her  sudden 
beauty,  was  thrilled  as  he  looked  at 
her.  The  child  of  yesterday  had  be- 
come a  young  woman. 


CHAPTER    IV. 


When  the  Crimean  War  broke  out, 
Denise  was  just  sixteen.  Daniel,  who 
had  been  appointed  corporal  the  first 
v'ear  of  his  engagement,  wrote  the  abbé 
that   he   was   c^oincf  to   the   East.      The 


go  The  Abbé  Daniel. 


abbé  hastened  at  once  to  Pressigny,  and 
sent  an  extra  money-order  by  mail  to 
his  ward.  From  this  day  forth,  Daniel 
began  to  be  the  subject  of  conversation 
at  the  farm.  Too  poor  to  take  a  daily 
newspaper  himself,  the  abbé  persuaded 
Beauvais  to  subscribe  for  one.  .  .  . 
"  Is  your  protégé  in  the  cavalry?  " 
He  also  brought  home  a  map  of  the 
war,  "  to  give  pleasure  to  his  curate, 
who  was  following  it  with  interest." 
The  abbé  took  possession  of  it,  carried 
it  to  his  room,  and  every  day  traced 
on  the  Eastern  territory  the  march  of 
the  army  to  which  the  Forty-ninth 
belonged. 

The  East  lay  far  beyond  the  ruins  of 
Etableaux.  Sometimes,  at  evening, 
after  the  sun  had  set  in  the  opposite 
quarter  of  the  heavens,  the  abbé,  as 
he  stood  in  front  of  the  window  in  the 


The  Abbe  Daniel.  97 


tower,  would  gaze  anxiously  into  the 
deeper  blue  of  the  eastern  sky,  and 
u'hen  he  closed  the  window  would  say: 
"  May  God   protect  him  !  " 

About  the  middle  of  the  year  1855 
Daniel  was  made  sergeant,  and  on  this 
occasion  the  abbé  received  a  letter, 
which  he  read  to  Beauvais  at  dessert, 
while  Denise  had  gone  to  spread  the 
linen  in  the  orchard.  This  letter  was 
full  of  the  war.  In  it  he  described  his 
military  life,  and  ga\e  an  account  of  a 
day  in  battle,  when  at  da}'break  they 
were  awakened  by  the  beating  of  the 
drum  and  the  heavy  roaring  of  the 
cannon. 

"  Each  one  takes  his  gun  and  his 
knapsack,"  he  said,  "  and  is  on  the 
march  !  We  advance  in  the  dawn  ; 
we  hear  the  short,  decided  commands, 
which  are  repeated  and  run  along  the 
7 


98  The  Abbé  Daniel. 


ranks  ;  the  aides-de-camp  fly  from  one 
regiment  to  another  ;  the  troops  take 
directions;  our  leaders  address  us  with 
a  few  energetic  words.  Soon  the  noise 
of  the  cannon  grows  louder,  and  then 
the  bugles  sound,  the  band  plays  old 
national  airs,  no  longer  heard  except 
in  time  of  battle,  and  which  make  the 
blood  of  even  the  most  timid  boil,  and 
then,  at  the  rolling  of  drums,  in  the 
midst  of  the  smoke,  intoxicated  with 
the  smell  of  gunpowder,  the  whole 
regiment  is  thrilled  all  together  with 
excitement.- — Forward,  march  !  .  .  .We 
are  no  longer  Pierre,  Jacques,  and  Dan- 
iel,—  we  are  La  France,  each  one  but 
an  atom  in  the  great  w^hole.  We  watch 
the  arm  of  our  captain,  whom  we  no 
longer  hear;  we  say  good-morning  with 
our  eyes  to  our  comrades;  and  we  are 
off.     This  often  lasts  all  day.     Men  fall, 


TJ?e  Abbé  Daniel.  99 


but  still  wc  march  on.  Sometimes 
our  hearts  grow  cold,  but  only  for  an 
instant.  And  so  on  till  night,  when, 
after  the  battle  is  o\'er,  we  learn  tb.at 
the  victor)'  is  ours,  and  that  a  sergeant 
has  been  appointed  ;  for  yesterday,  my 
dear  cousin,  I  was  made  sergeant.  The 
sad  part  of  it  is  to  return  to  our  tents, 
and  find  that  the  number  of  our  com- 
rades is  less  than  the  day  before  ;  that 
makes  my  heart  heavy  ;  but  others  are 
there,  and  we  talk  and  talk  till  we  fall 
asleep  from  exhaustion.  Now,  my  dear 
cousin,  my  candle  is  going  out.  Yours, 
my  dear  cousin,  with  all  m\'  heart!  " 

As  the  abbé  was  reading  the  last  of 
this,  Denise  came  in. 

"  There  's  a  gallant  soldier,  who 
knows  what 's  what  !  "  exclaimed  Beau- 
vais  ;  "Denise,  read  this  letter,  —  read 
it  aloud  ;   I  should  like  to  hear  it  again." 


:oo  T'oe  Abbe  Daniel. 


And  Denise  read  it  slowly,  in  her  clear, 
well-modulated  voice. 

The  abbé  carelessly  brushed  the  dust 
from  his  right  sleeve,  and  looked  down. 
When  Denise  had  finished  reading,  she 
gave  the  letter  back  to  her  cousin, 
without  sa}'ing  a  word. 

*'  When  he  comes  back  to  France," 
said  Beauvais,  *'  you  must  write  him  to 
come  and  hunt  with  me,  for  such  a 
fellow  ought  to  enjoy  hunting.  There 
is  some  one  who  will  know  how  to 
appreciate  a  horse  !  " 

Denise,  still  silent,  was  folding  the 
linen  on  the  table.  Beauvais  went  out, 
and  the  abbé  went  to  read  his  breviary  ; 
but  he  was  absorbed  in  thought,  for 
Denise  had  said  nothing  to  the  letter. 

She,  too,  went  out,  absorbed  in 
thought,  and  retreated  to  the  garden 
to   dream    her    dreams.     She    had    said 


The  Abbé  Daniel.  loi 


nothing,  but  she  -had  thouc^dit  a  great 
deal  about  the 'letlêr,' resounduig  with 
the  noise  of  the  \var.'  '  fyhç' \vtn trover 
in  her  mind  the  proud,  joyful  language 
of  the  abbe's  charge,  and  she  tried  to 
imagine  liow  lie  looked  sitting  in  his 
tent,  polishing  up  his  arms,  or  all 
equipped,  with  knapsack  on  his  back, 
and  fixed  bayonet,  rushing  on  the  en- 
emy. She  thought  of  him  again  at 
evening,  after  supper,  when  she  was 
leaning  her  elbow  on  the  low  wall  in 
the  orchard,  from  which  the  green 
valley  of  the  Egronne  could  be  seen 
as  far  as  Pressi gny. 

The  sun  was  going  down  behind  Les 
Templiers,  into  the  pine  woods  of  Les 
Courtils,  and  Pressigny,  half  hidden  by 
the  poplars,  and  crowned  b}^  its  slender 
tower,  seemed  transfigured  by  the  last 
rays  of  the  setting  sun;   the  battlements 


I02  The  Ahhé  Daniel. 


of  the  tower  were  rose-colored  ;  the 
slated' Voofs  Were 'of  a  bright,  clear 
vio'le'  ;  &lVihe  w'indows  we'-e  a  brilliant 
re'd  ;'  and"  Denise  was  dreaming  of  the 
Orient. 

Then,  looking  toward  Etableaux, 
with  her  eyes  blinded  by  the  sunlight 
and  bright  colors,  she  felt  quite  melan- 
choly to  see  the  valley  already  narrow 
and  dark  between  its  two  slopes,  cov- 
ered with  walnut  trees  and  oaks.  The 
faint,  crystalline  voice  of  the  Egronne 
rose  above  the  stillness  of  the  evening, 
like  a  plaintive  melody,  accompanied 
at  intervals  by  the  peculiar  bass  of  the 
tree-frogs.  A  shepherdess,  wearing  a 
black  hood,  was  coming  down  the  side 
of  Etableaux,  driving  a  herd  of  cows 
before  her;  the  heifers  lowed  quietly, 
and  the  swift  dog  kept  running  from  the 
shepherdess   to   the    cattle,    and    at    the 


The  Abbé  Daniel.  103 

same  time  barking  loudly,  to  which  the 
dogs  in  the  farm-houses  made  reply. 

In  a  moment  of  silence  the  shep- 
herdess began  to  sing,  and  her  drawling 
voice,  her  rustic  melody,  came  dis- 
tinctly to  the  ears  of  Denise.  The 
shepherdess  was  singing  a  local  ballad, 
very  popular  in  Touraine,  the  first  stan- 
zas of  which  \\ere  :  — 

"  Here  are  three  gallant  lads  * 
Who  for  the  war  are  starting, 
Who  for  the  war  are  starting, 
To  fight  for  hearth  and  home, 
Each  longing  for  his  mistress, 
Who  is  his  heart's  delight. 

"  The  youngest  of  the  three 
Is  filled  with  deepest  sorrow, 
Is  filled  with  deepest  sorrow. 
And  well  he  may  despair  ! 
His  mistress  is  the  fairest 
Of  all  the  Lyons'  fair." 

*  N.  H.  D. 


I04  The  Abbé  Daniel. 


Why  did  tears  come  to  the  eyes  of 
Denise  after  this  last  verse?  Why  did 
she  associate  in  her  mind  the  melan- 
choly story  of  "  the  youngest  of  the 
three  "  with  the  proud  soldier,  fighting 
far  off  in  the  Crimea?  .  .  .  Ah,  if  her 
cousin  could  have  seen  those  precious 
tears  fall  ! 

When  the  Malakof  Tower  Avas  taken, 
Daniel  was  made  sergeant-major,  and 
soon  after  returned  to  France.  The 
abbé  did  not  think  it  w^as  yet  time  for 
him  to  come  to  him  ;  but  he  wrote  him 
to  send  his  photograph,  and  doubled 
his  monthly  allowance  for  this  purpose. 
Some  weeks  later,  the  picture  came  to 
Les  Templiers.  Daniel  was  represented 
bare-headed,  with  his  right  hand  rest- 
ing on  the  bayonet  of  his  gun.  The 
abbe's  hand  trembled  so  as  he  took 
the   picture    that     it    w^as    ten    minutes 


The  Abbé  Daniel.  105 


before  lie  was  able  to  realize  his  ward's 
new   appearance. 

At  last  he  recognized  him,  and  was 
proud  of  him.  He  then  went  down 
and  showed  the  picture  to  Beauvais  and 
Denise. 

**\Vhat  a  jolly  fellow!"  exclaimed 
Beauvais. 

Denise  examined  silently  the  strong, 
young  face,  w^hose  features  stood  out 
in  brown  against  the  milky  back- 
ground of  the  photograph.  The  in- 
nocent abbé  was  again  troubled  by 
her  silence,  and  went  back  to  console 
himself  in  his  tower,  where  he  hung 
the  picture  opposite  his  black  cross. 
Yet,  if  the  verbenas,  with  wdiich  the 
abbe's  window  was  always  carefully 
adorned  in  summer,  —  if  the  pink  and 
purple  verbenas  could  have  spoken, 
they  would  have    said    that    now  they 


io6  The  Abbe  Daniel. 


were  watered  too  much.  When  the 
abbé  was  gone  for  his  daily  walk, 
Denise  dehiged  them  with  fresh  water, 
without  being  aware  of  it,  for  her  eyes 
were  on  the  brown  photograph  hanging 
on  the  wall. 

This  is  how  matters  stood.  Beauvais 
was  getting  stouter  every  day.  La 
Bruère  was  growing  old  and  beginning 
to  have  times  when  she  did  not  talk. 
Petit-Pi nson  was  growing  up,  wearing 
his  hat  on  one  side,  and  showing  him- 
self off  on  Sundays  in  the  square  at 
Pressigny.  The  abbe's  thoughts  turned 
to  Daniel  as  he  was  finishing  Denise's 
education,  and  Denise,  still  very  shy, 
was  often  found  dreaming  alone  in  the 
orchard.     She  was   nearly  eighteen. 

One  evening  in  July,  1857,  after  sup- 
per, Beauvais  said  seriously  and  tenderly, 
as  he  was  kissing  his  daughter:  — 


The  Abbé  Daniel.  109 


"  You  are  quite  grown  up  now,  my 
darling,  —  quite  grown  up,  and  I  am 
getting  old  ;  I  do  not  w^ant  you  to  be  an 
old  maid,  and  I  am  going  to  find  a 
husband    for  you." 

Denise,  confused  for  a  moment, 
finally  burst  out  laughing,  and  Beau- 
vais  went  on   in  his   deep  voice  :  — 

"  What  I  am  saying  to  you  is  very 
serious,  and  I  want  you  to  accustom 
yourself  to  the  idea  from  this  time 
forth.  I  have  some  one  in  view,  and  in 
a  few  days  we  will  talk  about  it.   .   .   .   " 

Deep  silence  ensued.  Beauvais,  im- 
agining himself  already  separated 
from  his  daughter,  rose  to  conceal  his 
emotion,  and  went  to  visit  his  stable. 
Denise  was  crimson.  The  abbé,  pale 
and  embarrassed,  muttered  a  few  words, 
made  a  pretext  of  reading  his  breviary, 
and  disappeared. 


no  The  Abbé  Daniel. 

When  he  reached  the  tower  the  un- 
liappy  cousin  shut  himself  in  and  locked 
the  door.  He  was  pale  and  wan,  and 
the  perspiration  ran  do\\n\  his  thin 
cheeks.  He  looked  at  Daniel's  picture, 
and  said  aloud:  — 

''  It  is  all  over  with  our  plans,  my 
poor  friend  !  " 

Then  he  began  to  w^alk  up  and  dow^n, 
absorbed  in  thought.  After  some  mo- 
ments of  silence  he  continued:  — 

"  So  the  first  comer  will  take  Denise 
away  from  me  ;  Beauvais  will  give  her 
to  him,  and  that  will  be  the  end  of  it! 
I  fled  to  the  seminary  for  fear  of  l^cau- 
vais,  the  threshing-machine  took  off 
my  arm,  I  have  brought  up  this  child 
like  my  own  daughter,  and  as  compen- 
sation for  it  all,  Ik^auvais  will  thank 
me  heartily  and  throw  her  away  to  a 
stranger  !   .  .  .      And    he    will    have     a 


The  Abbé  Daniel.  m 


right  to  do  so  !  After  all,  what  au- 
thority have  I  ;  and  are  these  plans  that 
I  have  for  lier  such  as  a  priest  ought 
to  have?  .  .  .  Yes,  but  it  breaks  my 
heart  to  think  of  this  marriage.  They 
are  going  to  snatch  away  my  second 
Denise  from  me  ;  I  shall  never  see  her 
again,  except  ceremoniously;  she  will 
go  among  strangers,  and  when  my  poor 
Daniel  comes  back,  I  shall  not  be  able 
to  give  him  the  wife  I  had  chosen  for 
him;  I  shall  not  unite  these  two  chil- 
dren, these  two  hearts  that  I  had  long 
ago  designed  for  each  other.  I  am 
stupid  to  be  so  timid.  Why  can  I  not 
speak  to  Beauvais,  and  tell  him  frankly 
about  my  plans  ?  .  .  .  Ah  !  Beau- 
vais !  .  .  .  I  hear  this  moment  that  iron- 
ical laugh  of  his  which  would  greet  my 
proposition.  ...  If  only  Daniel  had 
received   his   epaulets,  —  but    an   under- 


112  The  Abbé  Daniel. 


officer.  .  .  .  Beauvais  would  never  ap- 
prove of  that  !  .  .  .  No,  that  cannot  be  ; 
we  are  poor,  and  she  is  rich.  I  can  say 
nothing;   they  are  rich  I   .   .   ." 

The  abbé  did  not  go  to  bed,  and  at 
dawn  went  out  to  breathe  the  fresh  air. 
About  eight  o'clock,  when  Denise  went 
up  into  the  tower  to  water  the  ver- 
benas, she  noticed  that  the  bed  had 
not  been  disturbed,  and  wondered.   .  .  . 

Two  days  after,  Beauvais  came  up 
into  his  cousin's  room  in  the  morning, 
and  waking   him  suddenly  said  :  — 

"  Tell  me,  cousin,  don't  }^ou  know 
about    it?" 

"  No,"  said  the  abbé,  somewhat  fright- 
ened. 

"  Well,  I  will  tell  you,"  continued 
Beauvais  in  a  confidential  manner,  "  I 
have  found  a  husband  for  Denise.  .  -  . 
Can  you    guess  who?" 


The  Abbé  DaiiieL  113 


The  abbé  opened  his  eyes  so  wide  at 
tliis  that  he  was  frightful  to  look  at. 

'■  I  know  what  I  am  talking  about," 
Beau  vais  went  on  ;  "  your  nose  and  }'our 
mind  are  always  in  your  books;  you 
do  not  know  the  country.  .  .  .  Did 
you  not  notice  at  the  fair  in  Pressigny 
a  young  man  that  I  talked  with  a  long 
time  near  the  bridge?" 

"  Monsieur  Delétang?  " 

"  Yes,  the  son  of  a  merchant  at 
Angles.  They  have  spoken  to  me  on 
the  subject.  He  is  rich,  he  is  a  farmer, 
and  will  be  willing  to  live  at  Les  Tem- 
pliers. We  shall  keep  our  Denise  with 
us.  .  .  .  Just  now  the  young  man  is  at 
Angers,  and  will  not  return  for  a  month  ; 
we  will  talk  about  it  again,  but  mum  is 
the  word  !  " 

He  went  out. 

The  abbe  rose  in  haste,  and  with  new 


114  The  Abbé  Daniel. 


excitement.  *'  No,  no,  no  Delétang," 
he  said  to  himself;  "  I  must  assert 
myself  this  time  !  " 

And  he  hastened  to  write  the  fol- 
lowing lines  to  Daniel  :  — 

'•'Ask  immediately  for  a  three  months' 
leave  of  absence;  you  are  expected 
here  to  go  hunting.  Come  as  soon  as 
possible  !  " 

He  took  a  hundred-franc  note  which 
he  had  in  reserve,  enclosed  it  in  the 
letter,  and  hurried  to  the  post-office  at 
Pressigny. 

When  he  returned  his  heart  beat 
fast.  He  said  abruptly  to  Beauvais  in 
the  presence  of  Denise  :  — 

"  I  wrote  my  ward  this  morning  to 
come  and  go  hunting  at  Les  Templiers, 
and  I  expect  him  before  the  end  of 
the  month." 


CHAPTER   V. 

Three  weeks  had  scarce- 
ly gone  when  one  morninf^, 
while    the    abbé    was    still     in     bed,    he 
heard  Beauvais's   deep   voice  calling  to 
him  from  the  garden:  — 

"  Hey  !   Cousin  !  " 

He    ran    to    the    window.     Daniel  in 
undress   uniform,   with   his   cap    on   one 


ii6  The  Abbé  Daniel. 


side,  a  medal  hanging  from  his  button- 
hole, holding  out  his  arms  toward 
the  tower,  stood  beside  Beauvais.  The 
abbé  waved  his  mutilated  arm  with  all 
his  might,  went  back  and  dressed  as 
fast  as  he  could.  He  was  just  going 
downstairs  when  the  door  opened  and 
Daniel  and  Beauvais  rushed  into  the 
room.  Oh,  the  return  well  repays  the 
separation  ;  they  stood  held  fast  in 
each  other's  arms  for  some  time. 

"  Good  heavens  !  "  said  Beauvais, 
quite  touched,  "  are  you  going  to  eat 
each  other?  Come,  Monsieur  Daniel, 
let  the  cousin  dress  himself." 

The  abbé  made  a  hasty  toilet,  inter- 
spersed with  exclamations  of  joy,  and 
then  went  downstairs.  He  found  no 
one  but  Beauvais  in  the  court-yard. 

"  Go  and  find  him,"  said  the  latter 
gayly;     "there    he    is,  off    over    there. 


The  Abbé  Daniel.  117 


And  you  did  n't  put  him  in  the 
cavalry?  " 

"Why  should  I?"  asked  the  cousin 
in  amazement. 

*'  Just  imagine  ;  I  showed  him  my 
new  horse,  an  animal  that  nobody  has 
dared   to  mount." 

"Well?" 

"  Well,  he  jumped  on  his  back,  and 
there  he  is,  way  over  there." 

The  abbé  and  Beauvais  started  away 
from  the  farm.  Daniel  was  coming 
toward  them  at  full  speed  ;  his  cane 
was  still  in  his  hand,  but  his  cap  had 
been  left  on  the  road.  The  horse  was 
taken  back  to  the  stable,  and  then  they 
went  to  look  for  the  cap,  then  to  Les 
Bruasseries,  following  the  course  of  the 
Egronne  as  they  talked,  till  they 
reached  Pressigny.  They  had  forgot- 
ten   the    time    and    the    distance,    while 


ii8  The  Abbé  Daniel. 


asking  questions,  and  answering  them, 
in  their  surprises  and  exclamations. 
There  were  old  memories  to  be  re- 
called, jokes,  bursts  of  laughter  and 
delicious  moments  of  silence.  Beau- 
vais  would  not  have  left  the  major,  as 
he  called  Daniel,  now  for  all  the  world. 
When  they  reached  Pressigny,  they  felt 
that  they  were  dying  of  thirst,  and  the 
abbé,  with  the  others  (^honiii  soit  qui 
Dial  y  pense  !  ),  went  into  the  first  wine- 
shop.    They  touched  glasses. 

"To  the  Crimean  war!"  said  Beau- 
vais. 

"  To  the  day  of  my  return  !  "  ex- 
claimed   Daniel. 

He  was  never  weary  of  looking  at 
the  abbé,  and  the  abbé  could  not 
take  his  eyes  off  from  Daniel.  How 
changed  they  found  each  other  !  The 
one  with   his  long,  pale,  wrinkled  face, 


The  Abbe  DaiiicL  119 

liullow  checks,  his  identic  smile,  and 
gray  hair;  the  other  strong,  straight, 
cletcrmined,  everything  about  him 
seeming  to  say,  Forivard,  mardi  !  with 
a  frank,  decided  face,  sparkUng  brown 
e}'es,  a  youthful  moustache,  white 
teeth  speaking  of  health,  and  black, 
curly  hair.  .  .  .  The  abbé  was  amazed, 
and  said  to  Beauvais  :  — 

"Do  >'ou  see  this  boy?  Well,  I 
brought  him  up;  I  have  carried  him 
in  my  arms.  .  ,  .  Do  you  remember 
about  it?  " 

They  came  back  slowly  to  Les  Tem- 
pliers by  the  way  of  Les  Murets,  and 
Beauvais  made  the  remark  that  Denise 
would  not  know  what  had  become  of 
them. 

"Who  is  she?"  Daniel  asked  the 
abbé  in  a  low  voice. 

"  That  is  my  daughter,  my  daughter 


I20  The  Abbé  Daniel. 


Denise  !  "     exclaimed     Beauvais,     with 
pride. 

"  Oh,"  said  Daniel,  *'  so  you  have  a 
daughter?  My  cousin  has  not  told  me 
that." 

"  What  did  he  write  you  about,  then  } 
I  wager  that  he  has  not  spoken  only 
of  m}'  horses  !  " 

"Do  you  think  I  could  write  very 
long  letters  with  my  left  hand?"  inter- 
rupted the  abbé. 

When  they  reached  home,  and  Daniel 
wished  to  make  his  toilet,  Beauvais 
pushed  him  into  the  hall.  The  table 
was  laid,  but  Denise  was  not  there. 
The  abbé  felt  that  he  was  getting  red 
in  the  face.  Daniel  brushed  himself 
as  well  as  he  could  in  front  of  the  open 
window;  Beauvais  had  sat  down  to  the 
table.  However,  Denise  soon  made 
her  appearance.      She   came   in  just  as 


The  Abbé  Daniel.  121 


Daniel     had     turned     his    back    to    tlic 
door. 

"  Have   )'0u    prepared  a  good  break 
fast  for  us  ?  "  said   Beauvais. 

Daniel  turned  quickly  round,  and 
saw  Denise.  Both  started  slightly,  be- 
traying their  mutual  embarrassment. 
Daniel  bowed  respectfully,  not  timidly, 
nor  yet  with  too  much  assurance  ;  then 
they  sat  down  at  the  table.  He  found 
his  seat  next  Denise:  but  either  he 
was  embarrassed  at  seeing  this  young 
hostess,  whom  he  had  not  counted  on, 
or  overcome  by  Denise's  somewhat 
proud  manner,  so  that  he  did  not  enter 
into  conversation.  If  he  remained 
silent  and  constrained,  it  was  not  be- 
cause he  reall}^  felt  calm,  for  during 
the  first  course  he  showed  his  agitation 
by  breaking  a  dish  which  was  offered 
him,  before  he  had  hardly  touched  it. 


122  The  Abbé  Daniel. 


The  color  mounted  to  his  forehead, 
"Pshaw!  Pshaw!"  said  Beauvais  ; 
"  never  mind   that  !  " 

Denise  took  this  opportunity  to  break 
the  silence. 

"  That  plate  has  been  cracked  for  a 
long  time,"   she  said. 

"  Mademoiselle,"  .  .  .  began  Daniel, 
trying  to  make  some  excuse.  They 
looked  at  each  other,  blushed  more 
than  ever,  and  again  became  silent. 
Fortunately,  the  abbé  came  to  their 
aid,  and  changed  the  conversation. 

"You  have  no  relatives?"  said  the 
forgetful  Beauvais  to  Daniel,  although 
his  cousin  had  told  him  twenty  times 
his  ward 's  history. 

"No,  sir,"  replied  Daniel;  "my 
father,  who  was  a  carpenter,  was  killed 
by  falling  from  a  roof,  and  my  mother 
died  a  week  later.   .  .  ." 


The  Abbé  Daniel.  123 


And  he  added,  looking  at  the  abbé  : 
"  It  was  our  cousin  who  took  me  in." 

He  said  this  with  pride,  and  a  sim- 
plicity quite  touching  to   Beauvais. 

''  Pardon  me  !  "  said  he,  with  emo- 
tion. 

The  abbé  was  both  glad  and  sorry 
at  this  explanation,  and  took  advantage 
of  it  to  press  Daniel's  hand  once  more. 
When  dessert  was  brought  on,  the 
young  girl  left  the  dining-room.  Then 
Beauvais  lighted  his  pipe,  Daniel  rolled 
a  cigarette,  and  they  began  to  talk 
about  the  East  and  the  war. 

What  was  Denise  doing  in  the  mean 
time?  Sitting  under  a  wide-spreading 
fig-tree,  at  the  end  of  the  orchard,  she 
seemed  absorbed  in  watching  the  ara- 
besques of  light  which  the  sun,  coming 
through  the  trees,  made  on  the  sand; 
but  if  her  eyes  were  attentively  follow- 


124  The  Abbé  Daniel. 

ing  the  mobile  shadow-figures,  her  mind 
was  elsewhere.  The  thoughts  which 
absorbed  her  seemed  to  be  of  a  very 
complex  nature  ;  for  sometimes  a  sud- 
den smile  would  pass  over  her  lips, 
and  then  a  deep  flush  would  tinge  her 
cheeks  and  forehead.  Her  pretty  face 
expressed  a  strange  mixture  of  joy  and 
anxiety. 

Denise  was  on  the  point  of  breaking 
with  an  ideal  to  which  for  some  years 
she  had  been,  as  it  were,  betrothed. 
She  had  imagined  Daniel  quite  different 
from  what  he  was,  and  the  transition 
from  fancy  to  reality  was  at  once  sweet 
and  hard  to  bear.  In  spite  of  the  pho- 
tograph sent  to  her  cousin,  the  dark- 
complexioned  young  girl  had  pictured 
Daniel  to  herself  as  fair,  with  blue  eyes, 
and  a  rather  thoughtful  face;  the  real 
Daniel  had  quite  a  different  appearance. 


The  Abbé  Daniel.  127 


He  was  small,  slight,  dark,  and  not  at 
all  melancholy.  So  the  vague  features 
of  the  old  picture  had  to  be  effaced, 
and  replaced  by  the  living  image  of 
the   original. 

Although  admitting  that  the  Daniel 
in  flesh  and  blood  was  quite  equal  to 
the  imaginary  Daniel,  still  Denise  could 
not  help  a  feeling  of  disappointment 
that  her  dream  was  not  true.  Then, 
ashamed  of  this  persistent  prejudice, 
she  shook  her  head,  passed  her  little 
hands  over  her  blushing  cheeks,  and 
tried  to  give  her  thoughts  another  turn. 

She  looked  over  the  wall  at  the  fields 
of  mown  wheat.  The  note  of  a  quail 
in  the  stubble-field  reminded  her  that 
the  season  for  hunting  had  just  begun, 
and  that  Daniel  had  come  to  Les  Tem- 
pliers to  hunt.  She  listened  to  the 
calls    of    the    shepherdesses,   and    their 


2  8  The  Abbé  Daniel. 


voices  reminded  her  of  the  song  of  the 
"  three  gallant  lads  who  for  the  war  are 
starting,"  and  the  song  made  her  think 
again  of   Daniel. 

*'  Daniel  !  Daniel  !  "  said  the  clear 
voice  of  the  mill-dam  ;  "  Daniel  !  "  cried 
the  martins  flying  through  the  blue 
air  like  arrows.  And  so  it  went  on  till 
evening. 

When  night  came  Beau  vais  showed 
the  sergeant  to  his  room,  and,  pressing 
his  hand,  said,  "  Make  yourself  at  home. 
Sleep  well.  To-morrow  we  will  go  to- 
gether to  visit  my  woods,  and  I  will 
show  you   some    game.     Good   night!" 

While  going  to  bed,  after  saying  his 
prayers,  the  abbé  felt  quite  reassured. 
"  Monsieur  Delétang  is  far  away  from 
here,"  he  thought.  "  Daniel  is  estab- 
lished at  Les  Templiers.  Now  let  us 
leave  the  rest  to   God." 


The  Abbe  Daniel.  129 


The  next  day,  when  he  came  down- 
stairs, the  hunters  had  already  gone. 
Denise  complained  of  a  headache,  and 
seemed  tired.  The  innocent  abbé  fool- 
ishly believed  that  she  would  talk  to 
him  about  the  visitor;  but  she  said 
never  a  word,  and  he  went  away,  quite 
disheartened,  to  read  his  breviary  in  the 
garden. 

At  noon  Beauvais  and  Daniel  re- 
turned, famished.  Daniel  distinguished 
himself  by  bringing  back  two  par- 
tridges, of  which  the  abbé  seemed  very 
proud.  They  sat  down  at  table,  and 
as  they  were  now  quite  well  acquainted 
with  their  guest,  the  conversation  was 
brisk.  Denise  was  affable  and  lively, 
and  as  she  offered  Daniel  a  dish,  even 
ventured  to  say,  with  a  smile,  "  This 
one  is  stronger  !  "  and  as  it  was  neces- 
sary to  look  at  her  neighbor  while 
9 


30  The  Abbé  Daniel. 


speaking,  she  was  compelled  to  admit 
that  brown  eyes  were  more  expressive 
than  blue.  She  also  noticed  that  Dan- 
iel was  neither  a  fine  talker  nor  as 
awkward  as  the  usual  visitors  at  Les 
Templiers,  but  that  he  had  a  grave,  full 
voice,  a  frank,  energetic  manner  of 
speech,  and  an  inexhaustible  fund  of 
good-humor.  But  he  always  appeared 
to  be  aware  of  her  presence,  without 
seeming  otherwise  affected  ;  and  De- 
nise, somewhat  piqued,  said  to  herself 
that  the  imaginary  Daniel  would  cer- 
tainly have  been  more  friendly,  and  less 
interested  in  hares  and  partridges. 

The  day  passed  happily  for  all  four, 
and  still  more  happily  passed  the  weeks 
which  followed,  each  day  bringing  a 
successful  hunt  or  some  new  pursuit. 

The  autumn  was  glorious.  After 
their    return    in    the   evening,    they    re- 


The  Abbé  Daniel.  131 


lated  to  Denise  and  the  abbé  the  expe- 
riences of  the  day,  and  made  plans 
for  the  next  day's  pleasure.  If  Denise 
asked  for  a  hare,  Daniel  would  not  come 
home  till  he  had  a  hare  in  his  game- 
bag.  Once  he  did  not  return  till  night- 
fall. He  had  hunted  all  day  long,  and 
had  gone  without  his  breakfast.  But 
he  had  brought  back  a  pheasant,  a  rare 
bird  which  Denise  the  day  before  had 
placed  in  the  list  of  fabulous   game. 

Forgetting  more  and  more  her  for- 
mer ideal,  Denise  wondered  how  she 
ever  could  hav^e  had  the  poor  taste  to 
slander  dark  hair  and  brown  eyes,  and 
began  to  smile  at  her  romantic  dreams. 
She  was  awake  in  the  morning,  and 
secretly  watched  the  hunters  start  off, 
and  at  evening,  guessing  the  way  they 
would  return  to  Les  Templiers,  she 
went    to    meet    them,    accompanied    by 


132  The  Abbé  Daniel. 


her  cousin.  When  still  in  the  distance 
Daniel  would  draw  his  finest  piece  of 
game  from  his  bag,  and  show  it  to  her 
with  a  triumphant  air. 

A  charming  friendship  soon  sprang 
up  between  them.  Denise  had  only  to 
say  a  word  to  have  her  wishes  divined 
and  obeyed.  She  knew  all  Daniel's 
favorite  songs,  and  sang  them  in  the 
evening,  in  the  orchard,  without  dream- 
ing that  she  could  be  heard,  as  though 
she  were  singing  for  herself  alone.  At 
the  slightest  sign  of  approbation,  she 
would  stop  short,  like  a  frightened 
nightingale,  and  flee  to  the  thickest 
clump  of  trees. 

One  evening,  when  Daniel  was  alone 
with  the  abbé,  he  asked,  suddenly:  ''Is 
Monsieur  Beauvais  rich?" 

'*  Yes,"  replied  the  abbé,  in  surprise  ; 
"but  why  do  you  ask?'* 


The  Abbé  Daniel.  133 


"  He  is  rich  !  So  much  the  worse,- 
then,"  said  Daniel,  and  added:  *^  If 
Mademoiselle  Denise  were  poor,  like 
myself,  I  should  try  to  win  her,  and  if 
she  loved  me,  I  should  ask  her  father 
for  her.  I  might  settle  down  as  a 
farmer  at  }'Our  Bruasseries,  and  it  would 
be  fine  for  us  three  to  live  together!  .  .  . 
But  she  is  rich  ;  so  I  must  knock  down 
my  card-house,  and  think  of  something 
else." 

"Think  of  what?"  asked  the  abbé, 
anxiously. 

"  Of  leaving  Les  Templiers,  and  the 
sooner  the  better." 

"Baffled  again!"  thought  the  poor 
abbé,  seeing  for  a  second  time  that  his 
sweet  dreams  threatened  to  vanish  in 
smoke.  His  conscience  forbade  him 
from  interfering  with  Daniel's  plan  of 
departure,    and    his    heart    bled    as    he 


134  ^^^^  ^bbé  Daniel. 


thought  of  this  new  obstacle,  which  he 
ought  to  have  foreseen.  He  passed  a 
miserable,  sleepless  night. 

The  next  day  was  destined  to  be 
worse  still.  Beauvais  and  Daniel  had 
gone  hunting,  and  the  abbé  was  reading 
Saint  Augustine  on  the  front  porch. 
About  the  middle  of  the  afternoon  a 
carriage,  driven  by  a  young  man,  cau- 
tiously entered  the  court-yard,  and 
stopped  a  few  steps  away  from  him. 
The  young  man  asked  for  M.  Beauvais, 
and  gave  his  name:  it  was  M.  Dele- 
tang.  When  he  discovered  that  Beau- 
vais was  not  at  home,  he  breathed  a 
sigh  of  relief,  and  was  going  away  ;  but 
the  abbé  thought  it  proper  to  insist  on 
his  getting  out  of  his  carriage.  He 
made  him  go  into  the  house,  and  pre- 
sented  him   to   Denise. 

He  was   rather   a  countrified-looking 


The  Abbé  Daniel. 


135 


fellow,  in  spite  of  his  city  dress.  He 
was  neither  dark  nor  light,  quite  good- 
looking,  but  timid   as  a  young   girl  just 


out  of  a  convent,  and  pitifull}-  awkward. 
The  abbé,  proud  to  find  a  timidit}' 
greater  than  his  own,  took  pity  on  his 
embarrassment,  and  tried  to  put  him  at 
his   ease.     Denise,   suspecting    nothing, 


136  The  Abbé  Daniel. 


tried  to  be  less  shy  than  usual.  The 
suitor  sat  on  the  edge  of  a  chair,  talking 
in  monosyllables,  for  nearly  an  hour, 
twisting  his  moustache,  and  looking  all 
the  time  at  the  abbé,  to  whom,  in  his 
heart,  he  vowed  eternal  gratitude.  At 
last  he  rose  to  go,  and  not  till  then  did 
he  make  the  object  of  his  visit  known. 
He  had  come,  at  his  father's  request,  to 
invite  the  whole  family  to  a  fair  at 
Angles,  which  was  to  take  place  the 
following  week.  Having  delivered  his 
message,  he  bowed,  tried  the  wrong 
door  twice,  and  finally  got  into  his 
carriage,  which  was  soon  heard  rolling 
past  the  windows. 

When  Beauvais  returned,  the  abbé 
gave  him  an  account  of  M.  Delétang's 
visit,  and  conveyed  the  invitation  to 
him. 

"  Ah  !    ah  !  "   said    Beauvais,  with  an 


The  Abbé  Daniel .  137 


air  of  mingled  playfulness  and  mystery. 
Then  he  looked  knowingly  at  the  un- 
happy abbé. 

"  Ah  !  ah  !..  .  Well,  we  will  go  to 
Angles,  all  four  of  us.  I  will  have  the 
char-à-hajics  cleaned,  and  write  a  word 
to  father  Delétang.  Denise,  darling, 
put  on  \'our  prettiest  dress;  major, 
exercise  )^our  legs,  for  there  will  be 
dancing,  —  yes,  abbé,  there  will  be 
dancing." 


t    \ 


^.  I 


CHAPTER  VI. 

Thursday  of  the  following  week,  in 
the  early  morning,  fin  matin  as  they 
say  in  Touraine,  the  char-à-ba/ics,  drawn 
by  the  best  horse  Les  Templiers  af- 
forded, started  away  in  the  direction  of 
Angles.  Beau  vais  and  Daniel,  on  the 
front  seat,  took  turns  in  driving,  and 
exchanged  remarks  on  the  gait  and 
appearance  of  the  horse.  The  abbé 
and  Denise,  under  the  hood,  looked  at 


The  Abbe  Daniel.  139 


the  landscape  in  silence.  They  passed 
throLi^^h  the  woods  of  Les  Courtils.  It 
was  a  mild  morning.  The  country  was 
partial  1\'  x'ciled  in  smoke,  but  the  rising 
sun  penetrated  through  the  thin  vapor. 
Above  the  travellers'  heads,  the  sky  was 
already  growing  blue,  a  cool  wind  was 
soughing  through  the  pine  branches, 
and  the  first  yellow  leaves  were  falling 
under  the  carriage  wheels. 

Denise,  wrapped  in  a  brown  shawl, 
sat  back  in  one  corner  and  listened  to 
the  merry  conversation  of  Beauvais  and 
Daniel.  The  abbé,  full  of  sadness, 
watched  the  dry  leaves  flying  about. 
Me  saw^  them  come  down  from  the 
branches,  whirl  for  a  moment  in  the 
air,  and   fall   silently  on  the  road. 

"Autumn  has  come,"  he  thought, 
"  the  end  of  the  festival  of  the  }'ear, 
and  also  the  end  of   my  joys  and   illu- 


I40  The  Abhé  Daniel. 


sions  !  "  He  was  seized  with  alarm  at 
every  turn  of  the  wheel  which  brought 
them  nearer  to  Angles,  and  just  as  the 
distance  diminished,  his  agony  of  mind 
increased.  Urged  on  by  the  voices  of 
Beauvais  and  Daniel,  the  horse  went 
like  the  wind.  They  were  already 
passing  along  the  banks  of  the  pop- 
lar-bordered Creuse.  With  an  escort 
of  barking  dogs  the  carriage  entered 
the  streets  of  the  village  on  the  full 
trot.  The  abbé  trembled  and  looked 
anxiously  from  Daniel  to  Denise,  so 
near  to  each  other,  so  beautiful,  so 
young,  so  content  with  life.  Perhaps 
it  was  the  last  day  that  he  should  see 
these  two  children  of  his  heart  to- 
gether.  .  .   . 

Since  Monsieur  Delétang  had  not 
appeared  in  person,  the  abbé  believed 
that    this    matrimonial    phantom    would 


The  Abbé  Daniel.  141 

vanish  in  smoke;  but  now  that  they 
were  really  going  to  Angles,  and  in 
an  hour's  time  would  be  in  the  suitor's 
own  house,  the  matter  was  s:rowinfr 
serious  ;  and  knowing  how  little  he 
could  count  on  Daniel's  initiative,  and 
mistrusting  his  own  courage,  the  abbé 
was  disconsolate  and  in  despair.  De- 
nise smiled  as  she  looked  at  the  heath 
bathed  in  sunlight,  the  robins  crossing 
the  road,  and  Daniel  in  uniform.  The 
carriage  sped  along  like  an  arrow. 

Now  the  steep  roofs  of  the  town 
came  in  sight  through  the  trees  ;  now 
the\-  could  hear  the  indistinct  noise  of 
the  fair.  Soon  they  were  in  full  sight 
of  Angles. 

The  houses  came  down  in  gay 
terraces  to  the  road,  which  wound 
between  two  walls  of  green  and 
crossed   the   river  b}'  a  wooden   bridge. 


142  The  Abbé  Daniel. 


On  the  other  side  of  the  way,  on  a 
steep,  rocky  hill,  rose  the  fine  gray 
ruins  of  a  castle  of  the  time  of  Richard 
Cœur  de  Lion,  and  the  ruins  were 
dominated  by  a  platform,  in  the  centre 
of  which  rose  a  cross.  The  carriage, 
still  going  at  full  speed,  entered  the 
principal  street,  followed  by  a  crowd 
of  people  in  their  Sunday  attire.  At 
the  large  gate  of  Delétang's  place 
stood  the  master  of  the  house  and 
a  large  number  of  invited  guests,  and 
at  each  new  arrival  this  vanguard  gave 
a  vigorous  hurrah  as  a  sort  of  welcome. 
The  yard  was  already  full  of  country 
equipages  arranged  in  two  rows. 

In  a  moment  Beauvais's  carriage  was 
surrounded,  unharnessed,  and  placed 
among  this  curious  museum  of  vehi- 
cles. Monsieur  Delétang  senior,  a 
jolly  little    bustling     man,   who  was   as 


The  Abbe  Daniel. 


M3 


talkative  as  his  son  was  reticent,  took 
possession  of  Beauvais.  Delétang  jun- 
ior, trembling,  of- 
ered  his  arm  to 
Denise,  and  the 
abbé  and  Daniel 
remained  behind, 
somewhat  forgot- 
ten, and  feeling 
out  of  place. 

The  breakfast 
was  ready.  Th ex- 
went  to  the  ha 
filled  with  guests 
There  was  a  col 
lection  of  coun- 
tr\'men  from  the 
different  districts 
of  Berri  and  Poitou,  raisers  of  cattle 
and  horses,  most  of  them  in  frock  coats, 
some  in  new  blouses  and  broad-brimmed 


144  The  Abbé  Daniel. 


straw  hats,  all  people  with  good  teeth, 
thick-set,  with  ruddy  complexions,  quick 
at  repartee,  and  laughing  so  loud  as  to 
make  the  windows  rattle  and  the  glasses 
jingle. 

Denise  was  seated  between  the  two 
Delétangs  in  front  of  the  abbé,  whose 
sombre  cassock  and  pale  countenance 
contrasted  strangely  with  the  motley 
costumes  and  blooming  faces.  Attention 
was  soon  drawn  to  the  end  of  the  long 
table,  where  Daniel,  who  had  quickly 
broken  the  ice,  was  putting  everybody 
in  good  spirits  by  his  sallies  and  anima- 
tion. Beauvais's  heartv%  orolono-ed  lauerh 
was  heard  above  the  chorus  of  merry 
voices.  This  merriment  frightened  the 
abbé.  As  for  Denise,  she  laughed 
without  knowing  why,  and  made  a 
mental  comparison  between  the  silence 
of   her    young    neighbor    and    the   live- 


The  Abbe  Djtiiel.  145 


liness   of   the    sergeant,   not    altogether 
to  the  advantage  of  the  former. 

When  dessert  was  brought  on  the 
}'oung  people  left  the  table,  and  went 
to  the  place  where  the  fair  was  held. 
The  square  was  situated  near  the 
church,  and  overlooked  the  deep,  narrow 
valley  where  the  Englin  flows.  It  was 
planted  with  large  acacia-trees,  set  out 
in  groups  of  five.  Oxen,  heifers,  and 
horses,  collected  around  the  first  group 
of  trees  and  watched  by  small  children, 
announced  the  festival  by  their  lowing 
and  loud  bellowing.  Then  two  rows 
of  tents  were  seen,  under  the  shade 
of  which  people  were  drinking  at 
tables.  They  were  sucking  their  wine 
and  talking  at  the  top  of  their  voices. 
Occasionall)'  a  voice  would  come  forth 
from  one  of  the  tents  and  strike  up  an 
interminable    wail    in    a   drawling    tone. 


146  The  Abbé  Daniel. 


The  least  ray  of  sunlight  penetrating 
these  places  of  shelter  made  the  faces 
within  look  crimson  and  the  eyes  as  if 
on  fire,  while  those  in  shadow  took  on 
a  soft,  mysterious  coloring. 

Here  and  there  kitchens  in  full  blast 
sent  up  clouds  of  smoke.  The  venders 
of  fouaces  and  toiLvtisseaiix  *  were  sur- 
rounded by  children,  rogues  with  wide- 
open  eyes,  and  jealous  lovers  trying  to 
offer  their  sweethearts  the  largest 
possible  piece  of  pastry.  In  Poitou 
a  tourtisseau  costing  two  sous  given 
by  a  lad  to  a  girl  is  equivalent  to  a 
declaration  of  love. 

While  Monsieur  Delétang  and  Denise 
were  together  breaking  a  fouace — a 
bold  venture,  which  made  the  young 
man  blush  to  the  whites  of  his  eyes  — 

*  Different  kinds  of  sweetcakes  popular  in 
Poitou. 


/ 


/ 


/ 


Ti  \  ¥l 


The  Abbé  Daniel.  149 


a  long,  hilarious  shout  arose  from  the 
crowd  gathered  around  a  tall  pole,  to 
the  top  of  which  were  fastened  several 
struggling,  fluttering  pigeons. 

"Well  done!"  they  cried,  crowding 
around  Daniel,  who  ga}'ly  held  up  a 
pigeon  the  cord  of  which  he  had  just 
broken  with  a  gun-shot. 

"  Now  for  another  !  "  said  Daniel, 
and  seizing  the  loaded  gun  he  shoul- 
dered it,  leaned  his  dark  cheek  against 
the  butt-end,  pulled  the  trigger,  and 
this  time  two  pigeons  fell  panting  to 
the  ground. 

"  A  double  shot  !  "  he  exclaimed  with 
delight.  The  amazed  crowd  of  people 
applauded  all  the  more  vehemently 
when  the  \'oung  man  presented  his 
pigeons  to  three  worthy  old  women 
who  were  looking  at  them  with  longing 
eyes. 


150  The  Abbé  Daniel. 


Denise  was  very  proud  of  this 
achievement,  and  the  poor  M.  Dele- 
tang  felt  more  insignificant  and  awk- 
ward than  ever.  He  would  not  have 
touched  the  gun   for  all  the  world. 

Farther  along,  in  a  square  formed 
by  four  acacia-trees,  the  ball  was  in 
progress.  A  hurdy-gurd\^  pla}^er  and 
a  bagpiper,  stationed  on  two  casks  in 
the  shade  of  the  largest  tree,  conducted 
the  dancing.  The  hurd\'-gurdy  player, 
seated  astride  a  stool,  had  thrown  open 
his  waistcoat;  he  was  absorbed  in  his 
music.  He  turned  his  handle  energet- 
ically, and  marked  the  cadences  with 
a  slight  swaying  of  his  head.  After 
each  repetition  he  manifested  his  de- 
light by  a  grimace  \)hich  made  his 
spectacles  fall  off  his  nose;  at  the  same 
time  he  held  carefully  between  his  legs 
a  half-filled  bottle. 


The  Abbe  Ddiiiel.  i:;i 


The   bagpiper,   tall    and   thin,   with   a 

long    face    shaded    b\'   a    witle-brininied 

iraw   hat,    stood   up   and   blew  with    all 

seriousness     into     his    strange,     curious 

instrument. 

At  their  feet  boys  and  girls  were 
lluttering  about  in  fine  confusion  ;  the 
girls  were  holding  up  their  printed 
calico  skirts  with  the  tips  of  their  fin- 
gers, while  each  of  the  bo\'s,  with  his 
free  hand,  clung  fast  to  his  red  um- 
brella, an  object  of  luxury,  a  highly 
prized  and  inseparable  companion. 

They  scorned  the  local  bourrée  and 
were  tr\-ing  the  figures  of  the  quadrille, 
but  the  old  habit  kept  asserting  itself, 
and  the  step  of  the  bourrée  was  con- 
stantly reappearing. 

When  Daniel,  Uenise,  and  M.  Dele- 
tang  drew  near  to  the  scene  of  the 
ball   Daniel  exclaimed:  — 


152  The  Abbé  Dajiiel. 


**  Let  us  dance  !  " 

"But,"  replied  Denise,  **  I  do  not 
know  the  contra-dance;  I  only  know 
the  bourrée  that  La  Bruère  has  taught 
me." 

"  Well,  we  will  dance  the  bourrée, 
then.  M.  Delétang  shall  be  your  part- 
ner, and  I  will  very  quickly  find  one 
for  myself." 

He  noticed  a  woman,  still  fresh  and 
nimble,  who  was  watching  the  dance 
with  interest,  and  seemed  all  ready  to 
take  part  in  it.  Her  eyes  sparkled,  her 
head  swayed  to  and  fro,  her  whole  body 
kept  time  to  the  music,  and  her  feet 
could  not  be  still. 

"  Do  you  know  the  bourrée,  ma 
mère?"  said  Daniel  to  her. 

"  Ah  !  my  dear  fellow,  do  I  know 
it?  I  used  to  be  the  finest  dancer  in 
all  the  country," 


The  Abbé  D.iinel. 


DO 


"  Well,  will  you  dance  with  me?  " 

As  the  contra-dance  had  come  to 
an  eiul,  he  hastened  to  ask  tlie  two 
pla\-ers  for  a  bourrée,  and  whether  she 
would  or  not,  he  letl  the  ^ood  woman 
next  to  Denise  and  her  companion. 

At  the  first  sii^nal  from  the  hurdy- 
£^urd\'  pla\-er  the\'  all  four  started  in, 
and  the  other  dancers  followed  their 
example.  The  old  woman  skipped 
about  as  thouij^h  she  were  only  twenty. 
Denise  was  as  light  as  a  bird  ;  her  tiny 
feet  scarcely  touched  the  ground  as 
the}' glided  over  it.  Her  cheeks,  ani- 
mated with  pleasure,  were  crimson  ;  her 
blue  e}'es  were  full  of  light,  ami  her 
lips  wore  a  smile. 

i\s  she  moved  a  little  more  quickl\' 
to  clap  her  hands  before  offering  them 
to  her  opposite  neighbor,  her  thick 
brown    hair   became    parti}'    unfastened, 


154  The  Abbé  Daniel. 


and  fell  from  under  her  wide  straw  hat 
over  her  shoulders. 

"  How  beautiful  she  is  !  "  thought 
Daniel,  with  enthusiasm.  And  Denise 
noticed  with  admiration  how  quick  the 
young  soldier  was  to  catch  the  rhythm 
and  step  of  the  bourrée,  and  how  gayly 
he  stamped  his  heel  on  the  ground, 
turning  with  such  ease  and  agility,  to 
clap  his  hands  in  response.  She  quite 
pitied  the  timid  Monsieur  Delétang, 
who  became  confused,  and  got  out  of 
step  every  few  moments. 

While  Daniel  and  Denise  were  danc- 
ing under  the  acacias,  the  abbe's 
sadness  had  redoubled,  and  as  his 
wounded  heart  could  not  adjust  itself 
to  the  gay  commotion  of  the  fair, 
he  had  gone  toward  the  old  castle. 
Following  the  rocky  footpath,  he  had 
climbed  above  the  ruins  and  was  sitting 


The  Abbé  Daniel.  155 


at  the  foot  of  the  large  wooden  cross 
overlooking  the  now  ruinous  towers, 
the  x'illage,   and    the    entire  valley. 

The  wind  still  brought  to  him,  in 
puffs,  the  noise  oï  the  festival,  and 
the  sound  of  the  orchestra,  and  at  each 
burst  of  music  and  clamor  of  voices 
his  heart  swelled  and  his  eyes  filled 
with  tears.  Was  not  his  last  hope 
taken  away  from  him?  .   .   . 

"  It  is  all  over,"  he  thought,  *'  and 
Deletang  will  take  her  awa)'.  It  will 
be  of  no  use  now  for  me  to  open  my 
heart  to  Beauvais  and  beg  him  to  give 
Denise  to  Daniel,  for  he  would  only 
laugh  me  in  the  face.  What  could  my 
poor  sergeant  avail,  placed  in  the 
balance  with  the  son  of  the  rich  Dele- 
tang? And  then,  besides,  Denise 
has  not  yet  shown  any  preference  for 
Daniel,     and     Daniel     himself     is     too 


156  The  Abbé  Daniel. 


proud  to  risk  making  the  least  ad- 
vance." 

And  folding  his  arms  across  his  nar- 
row breast,  he  lifted  his  eyes  toward 
the    pure,  deep  heavens. 

"  Oh,  Denise,"  he  said,  "  is  your 
daughter  to  belong  to  a  stranger?  Is 
this  last  bond  which  unites  us  to  be 
broken?  ...  I  have  done  what  I 
could." 

He  turned  toward  the  great,  out- 
stretched arms  of  the  black  cross,  and 
added  in  thought  :  — 

"God,  who  placed  Daniel  in  my 
path,  and  brought  me  near  to  Denise's 
daughter,  can  still  unite  these  two  chil- 
dren, in  spite  of  everything,  if  he  will. 
I  put  my  last  hope  in  him.  .  .  ." 

The  sun  gradually  sank  behind  the 
wooded  hill  ;  the  river  now  reflected 
the    rosy    tints    of    sunset.      The    abbé 


The  Abbe  Daniel.  157 


still   remained  wrapt  in  thought  at  the 
foot  of  the  cross.     Suddenly  he  heard 


^ïi* 


some    one    call    him,    and     saw    Daniel 
running,  all  out  of   breath. 

"The  horse  is  harnessed,"  he  ex- 
claimed. "  They  are  waiting  for  you, 
cousin  !  " 


158  The  Abbé  Daniel. 


They  went  down  the  hill  together. 
Denise  was  already  in  the  carriage. 
Beauvais,  looking  excited  and  gay, 
gave  a  hearty  grasp  of  the  hand  to 
both  Monsieur  Delétang  and  his  son. 

*'  I  shall  expect  you  next  Sunday  !  " 
he  said,  getting  into  his  seat  beside 
Daniel,  and  when  the  abbé  had  taken 
his  place,  Beauvais  cracked  the  whip 
over  the  horse's  back,  and  they  started 
off  at  full  speed. 

The  sky  was  thick  with  stars.  De- 
nise, still  full  of  excitement  over  the 
dancing,  but  silent,  leaned  back  in 
her  corner.  The  abbé  closed  his  eyes, 
and  turned  his  thoughts  to  prayer, 
Daniel,  too,  seemed  to  be  dreaming. 
As  for  Beauvais,  the  white  wine  and 
generous  hospitality  of  the  Delétangs 
had  put  him  in  good  humor.  His 
voice   was  loud   and   his  laugh   bolster- 


The  Abbe  Ddiiicl.  159 


uLis.  Fiom  time  to  time  he  stopped 
talkiiv^  to  crack  liis  whip,  and  the 
horse,  liaxiiiij  shickened  liis  pace  for 
a  nionieiit,  started  on  all  the  more 
swifti}'.  His  freshly  shod  feet  clattered 
over  the  noisy  road  and  struck  fire 
in  the  darkness  of  the  nii;ht. 

This  horse  —  "a  priceless  animal," 
as  ]k\aii\ais  said  —  had  but  one  small 
fault:  he  was  timid  as  a  hare,  and  when 
frightened,  would  run  straii^ht  ahead. 

They  had  '^nwc  two-thirds  of  the 
distance,  when  the  horse  took  fright 
at  tlie  reflection  of  the  moonlis^ht  in 
a  puddle  of  water,  just  as  thc\'  were 
comin^i^  int(^  the  \illage  of  Barrou.  lie 
pricked  up  his  ears,  shied,  ga\-e  a  hnul 
snort,  and  then  starteel  to  run,  and 
rushed  thruui^h  the  \-illaL;e  like  a 
hurricane. 

Beauvais,  knowin<j"    that   the    road   as 


6o  The  Abbé  Daniel. 


it  led  out  of  Barrou,  bordering  the 
Creuse,  makes  a  sudden  turn,  strug- 
gled to  hold  him  in,  and  pulled  the 
reins  with  all  his  might.  At  an  unex- 
pected jolt  they  broke,  and  the  horse, 
feeling  his  liberty,  increased  his  infernal 
gallop,  threatening  each  moment  to 
throw  the  carriage  over  the  bank  into 
the   Creuse. 

Pale  and  with  compressed  lips,  De- 
nise clung  to  the  back  of  the  seat 
against  which  Daniel  was  leaning  ;  he 
turned  around,  and  saw  her  white  face 
in  the  moonlight.  Suddenly  rising,  he 
leaped  like  a  cat  on  the  horse's  back, 
seized  the  ends  of  the  broken  lines, 
and  at  the  risk  of  being  killed  twenty 
times,  glided  forward,  and  hung  from 
the  animal's  head.  For  some  moments 
he  was  dragged  along  by  the  horse; 
but   as    he    had     muscles    of    steel,    he 


The  Abbe  Daniel.  i6i 


braced  himself  more  and  more,  till  he 
compelled  the  creatine  to  slacken  its 
-^pced.  h'inally  it  stopped,  concjiiered 
and   all   of    a   tremble. 

The  travellers  got  out  of  the  car- 
riai^e  ;  the  abbé  hurried  to  Daniel,  and 
seein;j^  that  he  was  safe  and  sound  and 
^miliuL^,  he  went  back  to  Denise,  who 
--at  shivering  and  speechless  by  the 
side  of  the  road.  Heau\'ais,  quite  crcst- 
fcdlen  at  the  unparalleled  beha\ior  of 
his  horse,  walked  around  the  carriage, 
decided  that  it  was  injured,  and  an- 
nounced that  he  must  go  back  to  Bar- 
rou   to   Iku'c  it   repaired. 

Denise  got  up  and  declared  that 
nothing  in  the  world  would  induce  her 
to  get  into  the  carriage  again. 

"  Don't  be  troubled,  darling,"  replietl 
Ik'auvais,  very  sweetl}' ;  "it  is  onl\' 
two  short  leagues  from  here  to  Les 
II 


1 62  The  Abbè  Daniel. 


Templiers,  and  by  going  across  Les 
Courtils,  you  can  make  the  distance 
still  shorter.  You  are  all  good  walkers, 
and  it  is  a  fine  night.  I  will  go  alone 
to  Barrou,  and  lead  the  horse  by  the 
bridle,  and  in  two  hours  at  the  longest 
we  shall  be  at  home  again." 

"  Well,  then,"  said  the  abbé,  some- 
what embarrassed,  "  Daniel  may  go 
with  you,  while  Denise  and  I  go 
across." 

'*  Certainly  not,"  replied  Beauvais,  in 
his  sarcastic  tone  ;  "  you  are  too  absent- 
minded,  cousin,  and  the  major  already 
knows  the  roads  better  than  you  do. 
He  will  escort  you.  Well,  good  luck 
to   you.     I  will   see   you    later." 

He  turned  his  horse  around,  and  dis- 
appeared in  the   direction   of  Barrou. 

All  three  stood  motionless  for  a 
moment  on  the   road;     then    the  abbé, 


The  Abbe  Daniel,  163 


who  saw  in  all  this  the  hngcr  of  God, 
said  to    Daniel  :  — 

**  Well,  offer  }'our  arm  to  Denise.  I 
have  a  bad  habit  of  liking  to  walk 
by  myself,  and  I  will  serve  as  rear 
guard." 

They  went  slowly  up  the  rocky  path 
leading  past  Les  Courtils.  At  first  they 
all  walked  together,  talking  of  the  acci- 


'Ï3 


dent  and  describing  their  sensations. 
Denise  was  never  weary  of  admiring 
Daniel's  presence  of  mind  and  energy, 
and  she  expressed  her  admiration  most 
sincerely  and  naively. 

*'  lie  was  always  a  daring  fellow," 
said  the  abbé,  and  he  related  \\o\\,  as 
quite  a  child,  Daniel  had  mounted  a 
very  fiery  horse,  and  had  been  brought 
home   to   his  house  half-dead. 

At  the  top  of  the  hill  the  abbé 
stopped,  out   of   breath,   and   sat   down 


164  The  Abbé  Daniel. 


at  the  foot  of  a  tree.  Busy  with  their 
talk,  the  young  people  merely  walked 
a  little  more  slowly,  and  went  along 
into  the  woods.  The  abbé  watched 
them  as  they  passed  on  under  the 
branches.  The  moonlight  bathed  their 
young  heads.  He  sighed  deeply,  and 
thought  of  what  had  just  taken  place. 
Surely  God  had  had  the  goodness  to 
listen  to  him,  and  the  accident  was  the 
result  of  Providential  intention.  Dan- 
iel and  Denise  were  made  for  each 
other,  and  it  was  God's  will  to  unite 
them.     All  this  was  plain. 

Trusting  in  his  charge's  uprightness, 
and  feeling  as  sure  of  Daniel  and  Denise 
as  of  himself,  the  abbé  remained  sitting 
under  the  tree,  and  watched  the  couple 
disappear  in  the  oak  woods.  Ten  min- 
utes after,  a  merry  whoop,  the  call  of 
two    fresh   young   voices,    rung    out    in 


The  Abbé  Daniel.  165 


the  quiet  night.  The  abbë  replied 
feebly,   but   did    not   move. 

Meanwhile  the  two  young  people 
were  penetrating  a  covered  path  where 
the  interlacing  branches  formed  a  lat- 
tice-work of  light  and  shade,  and  talk- 
ing they  walked  on  under  this  bower, 
partly  in  darkness  and  partly  in  light. 
They  smiled,  and  spoke  of  indifferent 
matters,  but  in  the  depth  of  their  hearts 
they  felt  a  strange,  sweet  uneasiness. 

Their  light  feet  scarcely  grazed  the 
smooth,  fine  turf,  tinted  a  bluish  hue 
by  the  moonlight.  Each  felt  the  gentle 
pressure  of  the  other's  arm;  their 
voices  rang  out  alternately  in  the  night 
like  the  song  of  two  nightingales  rising 
in  harmonx',  or  mounted  together  toward 
heaven  like  two  wood-pigeons  taking 
flight.  Sometimes  they  were  both  silent 
at   the   same  time,  and   in  the   stillness 


66  The  Abbé  Daniel. 


which  followed,  they  heard  in  the  dis- 
tance, borne  on  the  evening  air,  the 
melancholy  murmuring  of  the  waters  of 
the  Creuse. 

Daniel's  heart  was  bursting  with  emo- 
tion, and  he  could  contain  himself  no 
longer. 

"What  a  wonderful  night!"  he  ex- 
claimed. These  four  words,  and  the 
manner  in  which  they  were  spoken, 
expressed  so  much  tenderness  and 
depth  of  feeling  that  the  young  girl 
bent  her  head,  and  felt  embarrassed. 
However,  she  had  to  make  some  reply. 

"  Don't  you  think,"  she  said,  in  a  trem- 
bling voice,  "  that  this  noise  of  the  water 
is  like  dance  music  in  the  distance?" 

"Do  you  like  dancing?"  asked 
Daniel. 

"  I  don't  know.  It  was  the  first  time  I 
ever  went  to  a  dance,  but  I  enjoyed  it." 


The  Abbe  Daniel.  167 


'♦Better  than  M.  Delétang,  for  he 
hopped  about  as  though  he  were  out 
of  phice." 

"  And  out  of  time,  too,"  she  added, 
witli  a  laugh.  **  Poor  fellow  !  he  looked 
forlorn  in  his  new  frock  coat." 

**  Now  don't  make  fun  of  him,"  said 
Daniel.  *'  You  must  n't  laugh  at  your 
betrothed." 

"  My  betrothed  !     What  an  idea!" 

Daniel  looked  at  her  as  if  to  ask, 
"Do  you  mean  what  you  say?"  .  .  . 
"  But,'  he  replied,  "  I  believe  that  is 
Monsieur  Beauvais's  idea." 

Denise  shook  her  head.  Daniel 
smiled  sadly. 

**  When  I  come  again  to  Les  Tem- 
pliers, I  shall  probably  find  a  great 
change." 

"Dear  me!"  murmured  Denise; 
"  you     speak    of    coming    again     as    if 


68  The  Abbé  Daniel. 


you  were  just  on  the  point  of  going 
away.  Your  three  months  are  not  over 
yet.  Are  you  very  fond  of  the  mihtary 
hfe?" 

''  I  have  been  very  fond  of  it,"  repHed 
the  young  man,  **  and  now  it  seems 
both  attractive  and  distasteful  to  me. 
There  are  times  when  I  am  sorry  that 
I  did  not  become  a  farmer  in  good 
earnest,  and  Hve  on  some  borderie* 
hidden  among  the  trees.  .  .  .  Les  Bru- 
asseries,  for  instance,  would  be  a  good 
place  to  live  in  !  ...  I  should  n't  want 
more  than  four  acres  of  land  and  a 
vineyard  sloping  down  toward  the 
valley." 

**  With  a  meadow  at  the  foot,  and  an 
osier-plot  on  the  edge  of  the  water,'' 
added   Denise. 

"  And  in  the  meadow,"  he  continued, 
*  A  small  farm. 


The  Abbé  DJiiiel.  169 


"a  good  stout  liorse  to  travel  across  the 
fields  with  ;  around  the  house,  an  or- 
chard  and   pastures.    .   .   ." 

"  And,"  she  said,  "  in  the  pastures 
great  chestnut-trees,  under  the  shade 
of  which  to  work.   .   .    ." 

"While  the  cows  chewed  their  cud 
as  they  lay  on  the   grass.   .   .   ." 

"  Yes,"  she  went  on,  innocently  car- 
rying out  the  dream  he  had  begun, 
"  two  cows,  with  great,  brown  eyes,  and 
a  white  heifer,  because  we  should  need 
milk.   .  .  ." 

She  stopped,  confused  at  her  mistake, 
and  stammered.  Daniel  felt  his.  heart 
beat  as  though  it  would  burst.  We  !  .  .  . 
She  had  said  it  I  The  sound  of  the 
word  still  caressed  his  ear.  He  sud- 
denly seized  both  the  young  girl's  hands 
in  his  own,  and  opened  his  lips  to 
speak  ;    then    as    suddenl}'    relaxed    his 


lyo  The  Abbé  Daniel, 


grasp,  and  repressed  the  words  he  was 
ready  to  utter. 

**  Ah  !  why  are  you  rich?"  he  ex- 
claimed with  bitterness.  "  Why  are 
you  rich?  That  puts  a  distance  be- 
tween us  greater  than  tlie  thousand 
leagues  that  separated  us  when  I  was 
in  the  Crimea.  .  .  .  Still,  I  love  you  ! 
I  ought  to  have  gone  away  without 
telling  you  so  ;  but  for  two  weeks  the 
words  have  been  on  my  lips,  and  I 
could  keep  them  back  no  longer." 

They  went  on  walking  slowly,  and 
Denise  listened  to  him  as  he  talked, 
and  her  beautiful  eyes  sparkled  through 
her  tears.  When  Daniel's  last  words 
had  penetrated  the  young  girl's  heart  as 
a  dew-drop  rolls  between  the  petals  of 
a  flower,  she  remained  silent  for  a  mo- 
ment, then  said,  in  a  steady  voice,  though 
vibrating  with  restrained  emotion  :  — 


The  Ahhé  Djiiid. 


**  Am  I  rich?  I  rcall}'  did  not  know 
it.  The  llionc;ht  lias  never  come  into 
my  mind.  I  ha\-e  grown  up  at  I.es 
Temph'ers  without  knowiuL;  the  mean- 
ini^  of  mone\',  and  without  thinking;  of 
askini^  about  it.  I  onl)^  know  one 
thinc^,  that  m\'  heart  is  above  all  ques- 
tion of  monc}'.  I  understand  you,  be- 
cause I  am  as  proud  as  }'ou  are,  and 
granting  that  my  father  is  rich,  if  }-ou 
would  lo\'e  me  better  as  a  poor  girl,  I 
will  become  poor  for  }-our  sake.  .  .  . 
I  ought  not  to  tell  }'ou  all  this;  but 
}'ou  know  it.  I  am  unsophisticated, 
and  cannot  conceal  my  thoughts." 

These  simple,  frank  Avords  were  spo- 
ken in  a  tone  denoting  a  will-power 
which  Daniel  had  never  suspected.  He 
seized  Denise's  hands  again,  and  look- 
ing her  in  the  face,  said  :  — 

"I    thank    }'ou,   and    I    admire   }'ou  ; 


172  The  Abbé  Daniel. 


but  I  feel  the  color  rising  to  my  cheeks 
as  I  think  what  your  father  would  say 
if  I  should  ask  him  for  your  hand." 

"My  father,"  —  and  she  smiled  as  she 
looked  down,  —  "  my  father  is  not  so 
terrible  as  his  abrupt  manner  would 
lead  one  to  suppose.  Besides,  he  has 
a  high  opinion  of  you,  and  he  loves 
me.  .  .  .   He  will  give  his  consent." 

**  But  in  his  eyes,"  Daniel  continued, 
*'  I  should  seem  as  though  I  were  seek- 
ing a  dowry  !  " 

*'  Ah,"  she  added,  reproachfully, 
"  }'ou  are  too  proud,  and  I  shall  believe 
that  you  love  yourself  better  than  you 
love  me.  Can  you  not  bend  your  pride 
a  little  for  love  of  me?  Besides,  there 
is  our  cousin,  who  will  be  our  ally  and 
plead  our  cause." 

"  Yes,  yes,"  exclaimed  Daniel,  "  the 
cousin    is  good  and  wise,  and  I  will  tell 


The  Abbe  Daniel. 


173 


him  c\'cr\-thinc;  to-niorruw.  .  .  .  What!  " 
he  cxchiinicd,  with  cHsappointniciit  in 
his  voice,  "  licrc  wc  arc,  ah-cady  at  the 
end  of  the  woods  !  " 

'T  was  true,  the  underbrush  was  grow- 
ing thinner,  and  here  and  there  appeared 
great  carpets  of 
purple  heath  sliin- 
ing  in  the  moon- 
light. Denise  had 
taken  Daniel's  arm 
again,  and  a  de- 
lightful talk  fol- 
lowed the  feverish  ^  ' 
excitement  of  their  first  confession  of 
love.  They  exchanged  confidences,  and 
opened  their  hearts  to  each  other,  over 
and  over  again.  The  abbé  would  have 
been  i)aid  a  hundred-fold  for  having  been 
so  deceived,  and  for  his  agony  of  mind, 
if  he  could  have   seen  them,  this  bril- 


174  T^-^  Abbé  Demie! . 


liant  night,  walking  slowly  through  the 
grassy  pasture,  while  the  calves  and 
cows,  crouched  down  in  their  dornwirs, 
half  rose  as  they  passed  by,  and  lowing 
softly  looked  at  them. 

The  dew  of  the  night  and  the  moon- 
light enveloped  them  like  a  misty  halo. 
Drops  of  dew  fell  from  the  branches, 
and  rolled  into  their  hair,  sparkling 
there  like  glow-worms.  Both  were 
young,  both  were  deep  in  love,  both 
full  of  life  and  hope,  and  in  the  stillness 
of  the  night  all  nature  seemed  to  trem- 
ble with  gladness  to  see  them  advance. 

So  they  came  unconsciously  to  the 
dark  bank  of  the  Egronne,  and  saw 
the  roof  of  Les  Templiers  shining  in 
the  moonlight.  A  cock  crowed  in  the 
farm-yard.  They  both  were  filled  with 
regret  to  reach  the  end  of  their  walk, 
and  they  moved  more  and  more  slowly. 


The  Abbé  Daniel.  175 


Suddenly  the  voice  of  some  youiv^ 
peasant,  returning  from  the  fair,  reached 
their  ears,  from  the  depths  of  the  val- 
ley below.  He  was  singing  an  ancient 
ballad,  very  popular  and  always  new, 
the  song  of  Juliet  to  Romeo,  the  song 
that  is  always  found  where  there  are 
lo\'ers,  —  that  is,  e\'er\'where,  in  the  de- 
files of  Sicily*  and  on  the  heaths  of 
Poitou.     The  voice  sang:  — 

'•  They  had  not  been 
Together  fifteen  minutes  — 
When  hark  !  the  lark  was  singing  high  ! 
Dear  lark,  thou  art  not  truthful  ; 
Thy  song  doth  lie  ! 
'T  is  only  midnight  now,  I  say, 
And  not  the  day  !  " 

*  "Ah!  rondinella  bella 

Tu  fai  da  gran  bugiarda  : 
Hai  conimenciato  a  can  tar 
E  non  si  vede  I'alba." 

Sicilian  folk  song. 
Pretty,  pretty  swallow  ! 
Thou  art  a  lying  fellow: 
Thy  morning  song  one  I. ears 
Before  the  rosy  dawn  appears. 

N.  II.   D. 


lyô  The  Abbé  Daniel. 


They  looked  at  each  other  and 
smiled,  and  then,  after  pressing  each 
other's  hands  for  a  last  time,  hastened 
on.  The  abbé  and  Beauvais  were 
walking  in  the  court-yard.  The  light 
of  a  blazing  fire  gleamed  ruddy  through 
the  kitchen  windows. 

"  Well,"  exclaimed  Beauvais  in  his 
deep,  jovial  voice,  "  did  n't  I  tell  you 
that  your  cousin  would  let  you  get 
lost?  What  a  man  he  is!  If  I  had 
not  met  him  and  picked  him  up,  he 
would  be  in  the  woods  still,  late  as 
it  is." 


t 


^* 


CHAPTER  Vil. 

That  night  it  was  Daniel's  turn  not 
to  sleep.  He  was  up  before  daylight. 
He  had  agreed  with  Denise  to  speak 
on  this  very  day  to  the  abbé,  and  to 
ask  him  then  to  approach  Reauvais  ; 
but  as  the  time  for  explanation  drew 
near,  the  young  man  felt  a  new  senti- 
ment, till  then  unknown,  spring  up 
within  him.  He  was  afraid  of  the  abbé. 
As  soon  as  he  heard  him  moving  about 
in  his  room,  he  took  his  gun  and  went 

12 


178  The  Abbé  Daniel. 


off  hunting,  all  the  time  reproaching 
himself  for  his  cowardice. 

At  noon  he  had  not  returned,  and 
they  sat  down  at  table  without  him. 
The  meal  was  a  silent  one.  Denise, 
anxious  and  troubled,  kept  looking 
toward  the  court-yard  and  spoke  only 
in  monosyllables.  Bcauvais  looked  as 
embarrassed  and  comically  serious  as 
though  he  were  carrying  a  state  secret 
and  were  not  accustomed  to  it.  The 
abbé,  weary  in  body  and  mind,  ate  little 
and  did  not  talk  at  all. 

After  dessert  he  went  up  into  his 
tower,  and  left  the  father  and  daughter 
alone.  Beauvais  folded  his  napkin, 
took  out  his  pipe,  lighted  it  solemnly, 
and  looking  at  his  daughter  very 
seriously,  said  :  — 

"  Well,  Denise,  how  did  you  like 
Monsieur  Delétang?  " 


The  Abbe  Daniel .  \  79 


"  The  lather?  "  asked  the  c^irl,  niib- 
chie\'oiisl)'. 

"  Xo,  the  son." 

"Oh,  I  found  him  —  very  polite  and 
very  proper." 

**  Very  good  !  "  exclaimed  Beauvais  ; 
"  \'ery  good  !  and  as  he  pleased  you,  I 
am  coming  straight  to  the  point.  Yes- 
terda\'  father  Deletang  and  I  planned  to 
marry  you  two.    What  do  \'ou  say  to  it?" 

Denise  was  sitting  down  ;  she  rose, 
blushed,  and  said  very  gravel)'  :  — 

"  What  !  father,  did  )'ou  pledge  my 
word   without  consulting  with   me?" 

"Well,  not  exactly  pledged  it," 
replied  Beauvais,  somewhat  astonished, 
"  but  I  supposed  you  would  give  your 
consent,  and  consequently  in\ited  all 
the  Deletangs  to  come  here  next 
Sunda\'." 

"  In  that  case,"  said  Denise,  with  de- 


i8o  The  Abbé  Daniel. 


cision,  **  you  must  write  them  not  to 
come,  for  I  do  not  wish  M.  Delétang 
for  a  husband." 

''  That  makes  quite  a  difference  ! 
And  why  not,  mademoiselle?  " 

"  Because  I  do  not  love  him." 

"  Bah  !  Bah  !  stuff  and  nonsense  ! 
You  do  not  love  anybody,  not  even 
your  own  father!  " 

She  rose,  threw  her  arms  around 
his  neck,  sat  down  on  his  knee,  took 
the  pipe  out  of  his  hands,  and  said 
coaxingly  :  — 

**Yes,  I  love  you  well,  my  darling 
father,  but  don't  speak  so  loud,  and  let 
us  talk  reasonably.  You  want  me  to 
marry,  do  you?  And  yet  you  want 
me  to  stay  with  you  ?  And  I  wish 
so  too.   ..." 

**\Vhat  then?"  said  Beauvais.  De- 
nise continued  :  — 


The  Abbe  Daniel.  i8i 


**  This  M.  Delétang  is  always  on  the 
road,  on  account  of  his  business.  He 
would  take  nie  with  him,  and  )'ou 
would  be  left  alone.  .  .  .  But  would 
you  like  to  know  the  real,  honest  truth? 
Well,  I  would  much  rather  have  some 
one   like  — like  M.  Daniel." 

Beau  vais  was  astounded  by  this  reve- 
lation. He  pushed  his  daughter  quickly 
away  from  him,  walked  across  the  room 
without  sa\'ing  a  word,  then  all  of  a  sud- 
den burst  forth  like  a  bomb  :  — 

"The  sergeant-major.?  Heavens! 
he  has  n't  a  sou  to  his  name  !  Who 
has  put  such  an  idea  into  your  head?  .  .  . 
A  non-commissioned  officer  !   .   .   .   " 

"  He  is  going  to  be  an  officer." 

"  I  thought  you  did  n  t  want  to  leave 
me  .?  " 

"  Well,  he  will  send  in  his  resigna- 
tion." 


The  Abbé  Daniel. 


"  Leave  me  alone  !  "  exclaimed  Beau- 
vais,  in  exasperation.  "  It  is  the  abbé 
who  has  been  the  cause  of  this  fine 
love  affair  !  " 

Denise  approached  her  father  slowly, 
compelled  him  to  stop,  and  said,  much 
agitated  :  — 

"■  Speak  lower,  father  !  You  know 
that  I  always  tell  the  truth.  Well,  I 
assure  you  that  the  abbé  has  never 
spoken  to  me  about  his  charge." 

'*  Indeed  !  Indeed  !  he  has  spoken 
wonderfully  without  saying  a  word  ! 
You  see  what  this  cousin  is  that  I  took 
for  a  kind  of  a  text-book  !  He  has 
done  well  !  " 

''Father—" 

"  Leave  me  !  *'  mterrupted  Beauvais, 
much  irritated.  "  Go  to  your  room 
and  think  over  what  I  have  said." 

*'  It     has    all     been    thought    over," 


The  Abbe  D.inicl. 


rci)licd  Denise  sadl\',  but  also  with 
decision.      "  I  sludl   not   mari'\-  at   all." 

She  went  out  and  took  refui^e  under 
the  trees  in  the  orcluu'd.  Heaux'ais,  in 
strant^e  agitation,  walked  up  and  down 
the  hall  for  a  long"  time,  gesticulating, 
growling,  and  muttering  to  himself. 
Then  suddenl}'  he  went  up  to  the  abbe's 
quarters  and  found  him  reading  his 
journal. 

"  There  you  are,  }'ou  man  of  mys- 
teries !  "  he  exclaimed. 

"What  do  you  mean?"  asked  the 
amazeel  cousin. 

"  I  mean  that  Denise  refuses  M.  Dele- 
tang,  because  her  head  is  full  of  }'our 
sergeant-major." 

The  abbé  tried  to  make  some  reply, 
blushed,  and  said  nothing. 

"  Why  don't  you  speak?  " 

The    abbé    rose,    looked   Beauvais   in 


1 84  The  Abbé  Daniel, 


the    face,  and  finally  said  to  him   with 
ardor  :  — 

"Yes,  I  have  been  mysterious,  if  it 
is  mysterious  to  have  secretly  desired 
the  marriage  of  my  ward  to  Denise  for 
seven  years.  Yes,  I  had  Daniel  come 
here  with  the  hope  that  he  would  please 
Denise,  and  that  she  would  please  him. 
I  intended  to  wait  till  he  should  be 
made  an  officer,  because  I  didn't  wish 
to  offer  you  anything  lower,  but  Dele- 
tang  crossed  my  path,  and  I  wrote 
Daniel  to  come  at  once.  Yes,  I  wished 
to  take  your  Denise  from  you,  as  you 
took  my  cousin  from  me.  This  idea 
has  possessed  me  for  a  long  time,  and 
consoled  me  in  m.y  sorrow.  Daniel  is 
my  own  child  ;  I  was  born  for  family 
life,  and  if,  contrary  to  my  vocation, 
I  took  orders,  it  was  because  you 
forced  me  to  do  so.      If  Daniel  is  here 


The  Abbe  Daniel.  1S5 


i>)-dii\',  you  arc  the  indirect  cause  of 
it,  and  if  Denise  loves  my  child,  it  is 
a  just  dispensation  of  Providence.  I 
have  been  ni\'sterious.  I  will  be  so  no 
lon<^er.  If  ni\'  Daniel  does  not  please 
\'ou,  it  is  enough.  Let  us  keep  the 
secret  to  ourselves.  We  will  part.  If 
I  ha\'e  been  m\'stcrious  with  }'ou,  I 
ha\'e  been  equally  so  with  Denise  and 
Daniel,  and  I  should  be  forever  morti- 
fied if  my  ward  were  to  hear  me." 

"  Cousin,"  replied  Beauvais,  gravely, 
**  one  would  suppose  that  you  too  were 
in  loN'C." 

"  I  am,"  replied  the  abbé,  **  I  have 
been  in  love  with  m\'  dream  for  seven 
)'ears." 

Beauvais  went  to  open  the  window, 
lie  was  suffocating.  lie  looked  into 
the  garden  and  saw  Daniel  just  coming 
in,  and  called  him.     The  abbé,  alarmed. 


i86  The  Abbé  Daniel. 


started  forward,  and  was  going  to  bolt 
the  door,  but  Beauvais  stopped  him. 

"  Let  him  come  up,"  he  said  calmly. 

"  Beauvais,"  replied  the  abbé,  in  a  low 
voice,  "  send  us  away,  but  do  not  humil- 
iate him  !  " 

"  Sit  down  and  be  quiet  !  "  said  Beau- 
vais, sharply. 

"  My  life  is  in  your  hands,"  mur- 
mured the  abbé,  dropping  into  a  chair. 

Daniel  came  in,  looking  rather  pale, 
but  calm  and  resolute.  Beauvais 
walked  up  and  down  the  room  for  a 
moment,  then,  stopping  in  front  of  the 
young  man,  said  :  — 

"  I  wanted  to  have  your  advice 
about  something  we  have  just  been 
discussing.  This  is  it.  I  have  a  rela- 
tive, who  has  the  reputation  of  being 
very  rich,  and  has  a  marriageable 
daughter.       This    young    girl    is    loved 


The  Abbe  Dm  id.  1S7 

and  sought  tur  b\'  a  vcr}'  poor  young 
man.  ..." 

Here  Uanicl  interrupted  him. 

"Monsieur,"  he  saiel,  '"I  see  that 
}'ou  know  all.  Ves,  I  love  )-our  daugh- 
ter, aiul  as  \"ou  ha\'e  just  remarked,  1 
am  ver}'  poor;  I  understand  you,  so 
spare  me  the  mortification  of  an  expla- 
nation which  I  can  guess." 

"  Vou  ha\'e  neither  understood  nor 
guessed  an)thing,"  interrupted  Beau- 
vais.  *'  Let  me  finish.  My  relative,  as 
I  told  you,  has  the  reputation  of  being 
rich,  but  all  that  glitters  is  not  gold, 
lie  has  houses  and  lands,  but  he  is 
over  head  and  ears  in  debt,  and  his 
propert}'  is  covered  with  mortgages. 
In  a  \-ear  or  two  it  will  be  seized  and 
sold;  m}'  relati\'e  will  find  himself  then 
without  resources,  and  his  daughter 
without  a  dowr}'.      What  do  you  think 


The  Abbé  Daniel. 


the  very  poor  young  man  ought  to 
do?" 

"  Cousin,"  exclaimed  Daniel  in  a 
shrill  voice,  "will  >'ou  give  me  a  lease 
of  your  Bruasseries?  " 

"  You  know  \-er\'  well  that  it  is 
yours,"  said  the  abbé,  opening  his 
eyes  wide,  and  no  longer  understand- 
ing what  was  going    on. 

Daniel  then  drew  near  to  Beauvais, 
and  in  a  firm  but  gentle  voice,  said  :  — 

"  If  I  were  the  young  man  of  whom 
you  speak,  monsieur,  I  should  go  to 
the  young  girl's  father,  as  I  come  to 
you  now,  and  I  should  say  to  him: 
'I  am  }'oung,  I  am  strong,  I  am  accus- 
tomed to  country  life,  and  I  have  a 
friend  who  is  willing  to  entrust  me  with 
a  farm  in  excellent  condition,  well  sup- 
plied with  implements  and  well  fruited. 
Give  me  your  daughter,  and  we  two  will 


The  Abbé  Daniel.  i;^9 

work  to  c^ivc  }'oii  back  a  portion  ofj'our 
lost  fortune'  " 

As  hc  listened  to  Daniel,  Ik'anvais 
i;"re\v  red  in  tlic  face,  liis  lips  trembled, 
the  veins  in  his  forehead  swelled,  and 
hc  seemed  to  be  deeply  mo\'ed.  He 
walked  across  the  roi^m  aL;ain,  and 
when  he  reached  the  window,  looked 
toward  the  orchard. 

"  Denise,"  he  cried  in  his  loudest 
voice. 

After  a  few  minutes  Denise  came  in, 
in  great  agitation.  She  was  alarmed 
to  see  the  solemn  faces  of  Beauvais 
and  the  abbJ-,  anil  Daniel  looking  so 
excited  ;  she  tried  to  speak,  and  the 
words  died    away  on  her  lips. 

"  Denise,"  said  Beauvais,  pointing  to 
Daniel,  "  there  is  a  foolish  fellow,  who 
is  willing  to  marr\'  \'ou  without  a 
dowr}-;   do  you   give  \'(jur  consent?" 


90  The  Abbé  Daniel. 


The  young  girl  looked  radiantly  at 
her  father,  and  threw  her  arms  around 
his  neck. 

**  Leave  me  alone  !  "  he  said  in  a 
choking  voice.  "  If  you  both  give 
your  consent,  does  n't  the  fact  that 
you  are  both  poor  frighten  you  ?  I 
assure  you  that  what  I  have  told  you 
is  serious;  it  is  no  pretty  story  such 
as  you  see  in    plays." 

"  I  am  taking  it  seriously,"  replied 
Daniel.  ''  I  have  been  in  love  with 
Denise  for  more  than  a  month,  but 
the  fear  of  seeming  to  be  a  fortune 
hunter  compelled  me  to  be  silent.  I 
intended  to  go  away  without  letting 
my  feelings  be  known,  and  I  should 
have  done  so  but  for  the  accident 
yesterday  and  your  statement  to-day." 

"So,"  said  Beauvais,  somewhat  piqued, 
"  if  Denise   were   still  rich,  you    would 


The  Abbe  Diimcl.  191 


think  twice  before  askiiiL,^  me  for  lier? 
you  would  be  afraid  to  marry  her, 
would  you?  " 

"  Certainly,  monsieur." 

'•  Oh,  that  is  a  little  too  much,"  ex- 
claimed Beauvais,  whose  homely  face 
was  beginning  to  look  irritated;  and 
besides  he  could  no  longer  play  a  rôle 
so  humiliating  to  him;  "  that  is  a  little 
too  much  !  Don't  you  suppose  one 
can  do  more  good  about  him  with  a 
fortune  than  without  a  sou  in  the 
world?  Money  is  money,  and  poverty 
leads  to  nothing.  By  my  faith,  \'our 
reasoning  breaks  me  all  up,  and  I  would 
refuse  to  give  Denise  to  you  now  if 
I  had  not  given  }-ou  my  word.  Eh  ! 
D>)  }'ou  believe,  proud  as  )'ou  are,  that 
I  would  give  her  to  you,  if  1  were  as 
ruined  as  I  have  led  you  to  suppose? 
No,   no  !    nothing   with   nothing    causes 


192  The  Abbé  Daniel. 


uiihappiness,  and  when  there  is  no  hay 
in  the  loft  the  asses  kick  !  .  .  .  Denise 
has  enough  for  two,  thank  God  !  " 

*'  But  Daniel  is  not  absolutely  poor," 
the  abbé  ventured  to  remark,  as  he  at 
last  understood  what  they  were  talking 
about,  and  was  recovering  his  serenity; 
''  my  Bruasseries  are  a  little  something 
and  worth  at  least  twenty-five  thousand 
francs.  ..." 

"  Who  is  talking  about  your  Bru- 
asseries? "  quickly  interrupted  Beau- 
vais.  "  That  would  be  a  great  conso- 
lation to  us  if  I  were  ruined  !  but  I  am 
not,  thank  God  !  I  am  not.  Come," 
he  said  to  Denise,  "  come,  Miss  Per- 
versity, kiss  your  lover!  If  your 
mother  were  here  she  would  weep  for 
joy.   .  .  as  I  do  !  " 

Indeed,  the  rough  Beauvais  could 
control     his    emotion    no    longer,    and 


The  Abbè  DjnicL  193 


the  hot  tears  were  flowing  down  his 
cheeks.  Daniel  imprinted  his  first  kiss 
on  Denise's  forehead,  then  kissed  the 
abbé  and  Beauvais. 

Wlien  all  four  were  calm  and  had 
wiped  their  red  eyes  they  went  down 
together  into  the  garden.  La  Bruère 
was  spreading  out  the  linen.  Denise 
took  Daniel's  hand,  led  him  to  the  old 
servant,  and  said  joyfully  :  — 

"  Bruère,  here  is  my  future  hus- 
band !  " 

La  Bruère  clasped  her  hands:  *' Ah, 
m\-  darling!  Ah!  my  good  people! 
So  much  the  better!  I  said  to  myself, 
'  What  can  they  all  be  doing  up  there 
together?  Monsieur  le  cure's  room 
hardl\-  holds  four  people.  .   .  .'  " 

But   the   lovers   had   no  time  to  listen 
to    her,   and   did    not  wait;    they  sped 
away  together  through  the  orchard. 
13 


te^.*l%; 


m 


iSS^ 


CHAPTER   VITI. 


It  was  the  evening  of  Denise's  wed- 
ding. .  .  .  The  hurdy-gurdy  and  the 
bagpipe  were  playing  in  the  garden 
under  the  windows  of  the  large  hall, 
filled  with  people  and  the  hum  of 
voices.  Beauvais  could  not  let  a  mo- 
ment of  this  day  pass  without  music. 
He  wanted   the  air  and   the  walls  of  Les 


The  Abbe  Daniel.  195 


rcmplicrs  to  be  as  gay  as  he  was 
himself. 

Xearh'  a  hundrecl  people  were  seated 

it  two  immense  tables  brii;"htl\^  lii^htetl 
with  a  double  row  of  candles.  Beaii\-ais 
sat  at  one  of  the  tables,  surrounded  by 
the  older  people,  —  distant  relatives, 
farmers  and  their  wives  from  the  neigh- 
boring^ districts.  At  the  other  sat  the 
newly  married  couple  and  the  abbé, 
wreathed  about  with  blooming  young 
people.  They  had  gathered  in  Pres- 
signy  and  from  the  neigboring  farms 
all  those  over  fifteen  and  under  twenty- 
five  \-ears  old. 

/\t  the  end  of  the  hall  was  still  a  third 
table,  and  the  noisiest,  filled  with  chil- 
dren, with  the  little  folk.  The  bagpiper 
and  the  luird\'-gurd\'  phu'er  could  hard- 
1\-  be  heard  abo\e  the  noise  of  voices, 
laughter,   and    the  jingling    of   glasses; 


196  The  Abbé  Daniel. 


still  the  harmony  of  these  instruments 
formed  a  sort  of  vibrating  background 
to  the  tumultuous  joy  of  the  banquet. 

Les  Templiers  breathed  forth  a  rich 
perfume  of  hospitality  and  abundance. 
Servants  were  constantly  running  to 
and  fro.  They  were  constantly  bring- 
ing new  dishes  in  their  outstretched 
hands,  and  mingling  their  gayety  with 
the  gayety  of  the  guests.  Wine  flowed 
freely.  The  guests  conversed  in  groups 
of  two  or  three  or  more,  then  all  to- 
gether at  a  table,  and  from  one  table  to 
another.  The  older  people  argued,  dis- 
cussed, drank  each  other's  health,  while 
the  young  folk  laughed,  conversed  mer- 
rily, and  talked  of  love.  Now  and  then, 
a  word,  or  a  whole  sentence,  was  heard 
distinctly  above  the  hubbub.  Some- 
times a  whole  table  would  burst  into 
loud  laughter. 


The  Abbe  Daniel.  197 


In  the  midst  of  this  noise  there  was 
a  sort  of  oasis  of  silence  where  the 
bridal  couple  and  the  abbé  were. 
There  ever\'thing  was  sweet  and  quiet. 
"  Denise  —  Daniel  —  Cousin"  were  mur- 
mured low.  More  frequently  a  smile, 
or  a  j^rolonc^ed  look,  translated  their 
thoui^hts.  Denise  was  absorbed  in  her 
happiness,  as  she  sat  dressed  in  white 
tulle,  wearin<^  natural  orange-blossoms 
in  her  brown  hair,  her  face  pale  and 
innocent,  her  e}-es  sparkling  and  yet 
thoughtful. 

Daniel  was  dressed  in  black.  He  had 
left  off  his  uniform,  never  to  put  it  on 
again.  His  strong,  beaming,  sunburnt 
\\\cc  contrasted  with  his  dark  clothes. 
He  hardly  took  his  eyes  away  from  De- 
nise, and  she,  charming  in  her  agitation, 
occasionally  looked  around  at  the  throng 
of    invited    quests.      The   abbé  did   not 


198  The  Abbé  Daniel. 


see  the  guests  ;  he  saw  nothing  but  the 
bridal  pair.  His  admiration  was  be- 
yond words.  He  asked  himself  whether 
he  were  not  dreaming.  His  joy  was 
unspeakable,  and  yet  a  strange  touch 
of   sadness  was  mingled   with   it. 

A  mother  is  never  gay  on  her  child's 
wedding-day.  The  hurdy-gurdy  and 
the  bagpipe,  to  the  abbe's  sensitive 
ears,  seemed  to  be  playing  a  farewell 
sonGf,  a  souG^  fjrowiuG^  more  and  more 
distant,  and  finally  ceasing  altogether. 
He  was  both   happ)'   and   sad. 

At  the  end  of  the  dinner  the  heavy 
dishes  of  venison  with  which  the  table 
was  spread  disappeared  in  the  twinkling 
of  an  e}'c,  and  were  immediately  re- 
placed with  cakes  and  fruit.  Petit- 
Pinson  brought  in  the  baskets,  and 
distributed  the  contents  according  to 
his  own  pleasure.     He,  too,  was   going 


T}?e  Abbe  Daiiiel.  199 


to  be  married  two  weeks  later.  He 
stepped  proudly,  and  opened  his  eyes 
wider  than  ever.  La  Brucre  reserved 
for  herself  alone  the  privilege  of  serv- 
ing the  young  master  and  mistress,  and 
with  her  old,  wrinkled,  trembling  hands 
placed  the  finest  fruits  of  the  orchard 
before  them, —  transparent  grapes,  crim- 
son apples,  yellow  pears,  almonds  in 
their  green  shells,  hazel-nuts  in  their 
prickly  coverings.  They  were  so  many 
fantastic  emblems  of  congratulation  for 
Denise  and  the  abbé,  who  were  unable 
to  touch  them. 

When  dessert  was  brought  on  the 
hall  was  more  tumultuous  than  ever, 
and  they  drank  the  health  of  the  newly 
married  couple.  "  To  the  bridal  pair 
and  the  abbé  !"  exclaimed  Beauvais  in 
a  stentorian  voice  ;  and  all  the  guests 
rose,  and  approached   the  new  couple, 


2  00  The  Abbé  Daniel. 


forming  above  the  abbe's  head  a  sort  of 
chandeher  of  glasses,  with  a  thousand 
facets  and  a  thousand  crystaUine  jin- 
ghngs.  The  poor  abbé,  with  his  one 
hand,  was  very  mucli  embarrassed.  Si- 
lence having  been  restored  with  con- 
siderable difficulty,  three  young  girls, 
carrying  bouquets  of  flowers,  came  and 
placed  them  in  front  of  Denise,  and 
standing  wdth  downcast  eyes,  they  sang 
the  following  couplet  to  a  slow  air: 

"  Madam,  from  this  bouquet 
Which   I    hold  in  m}^  hand 

Take  one  flower  bright  and  gay, 
That  thou  may'st  understand 

How  all  these  honors  of  a  day 
Like  flowers  will  pass  away,"* 

It  was  a  bridal  song,  the  young  girls' 
farewell  to  the  new  wife,  —  a  song  full 
of   grave  lessons,  a  sad,  serious  note  in 

*  N.  H.  D. 


The  Abbe  Daniel.  201 


the  midst  of  the  ox'crflouing  lo\'c  of 
the  first  day.   .   .  . 

Denise  hstencd  with  a  smile,  and 
thoiiL^ht  to  herself  that  love  would  not 
pass   away  like   the    flowers. 

After  the  dinner  there  was  a  ball. 
Two  violins  and  an  oboe  had  taken  the 
place  of  the  hurdy-gurdy  player  and 
the  bagpiper,  who  were  quite  out  of 
breath.  All  the  young  people  followed 
the  new  music,  in  a  crowd,  to  the  gar- 
den, where  colored  lamps  were  arranged 
to  light  a  terrace  given  up  to  the  dan- 
cers. The  bridal  pair  were  surrounded, 
and  the  ball  began.  Although  it  was 
October,  it  was  one  of  those  warm 
nights  such  as  often  occur  in  Tourainc, 
where  the  autumn  is  so  beautiful. 

The  gaycty,  transferred  to  a  different 
environment,  seemed  to  have  taken  a 
fresh  start. 


202  The  Abbé  Daniel. 


The  abbé  walked  about  among  the 
dancers  for  a  long  time,  looked  several 
times  into  the  hall  where  tlie  older 
people  remained  with  Beauvais,  then 
went  alone  through  the  dark  paths  in 
the  garden.  A  solemn  joy  followed  him 
everywhere.  He  finally  kissed  Daniel 
and  Denise,  and  went  up  into  his  tower. 
When  he  reached  his  room  he  opened 
the  window,   and   sat  down  by  it. 

Around  him  extended  the  dark  coun- 
try and  the  starry  heavens.  At  his 
feet,  surrounded  by  a  border  of  trees, 
the  ball  was  going  on,  and  sent  up 
to  him  bursts  of  music  and  gayety. 
He  forgot  to  watch  the  dancers,  taking 
their  partners,  leaving  them,  intermin- 
gling and  separating  again.  He  fol- 
lowed every  motion  made  by  Denise 
and  Daniel.  About  midnight  a  v/hite 
form    and  a  black  one    left   the    dance 


The  Abbe  DJiiiel.  203 


to<^ethcr,  aiul  disappeared.  Gradually 
the  music  ceased,  and  the  chuicers  went 
a\va\'  in  their  turn.  The  huiips  were 
e\tini;uished,  the  garden  became  dark 
and  still  ;  but  towartl  rressiL;n\',  the 
-;iL,diin!^  of  the  oboe  could  be  heard, 
accompanied  by  the  scraping  of  the 
violins,  while  the  hurdy-gurdy  and  the 
bagpi[)e  resounded  from  the  direction 
of  l^tableaux.  Singing  and  merry 
shouts  were  heard  growing  fainter  and 
more  distant.  Here  and  there  in  the 
valle\'s  lights  appeared.  They  were 
lights  from  the  windows  in  the  houses 
to  which  some  of  tlie  guests  had  just 
returned. 

The  abbé  soon  found  himself,  as  it 
were,  wrapped  in  silence.  On  the  front 
of  Les  Templiers  a  single  window  was 
still  lighted  up,  the  one  in  the  bridal 
chamber.       The     abbé     looked     at    the 


204 


The  Abbé  Daniel. 


white  lamp-light,  then  lifting  his  head 
toward  the  deep  heavens,  where  the 
twinkling  stars  seemed  to  thrill  with 
delight,  he  thought  of  the  Denise  of 
other  days,  the  Denise  so  well  beloved, 
who  now  dwelt  above.  His  heart  was 
full  of  joy,  full  of  tenderness  and  sad- 
ness. He  murmured  half  aloud  this 
fragment  from   Simeon's  song:  — 

"  Lord,  now  lettest  thou  thy  servant 
depart  in  peace.   .   .  ," 

And  the  tears  flowed  freely  and 
gently  down  his   emaciated  cheeks. 


inis  DOOK  IS  LJuc  uii  iiie  iast 
date  stamped  below 


@CT  231343 


îm-10,'48(B1040)470 


r/u 


llllllllHiniiilinii 

B  000  010  952  0 


2450 

T34A1E 

1894 


